Heather was writing in her journal. Again. Since the beginning of August, she had been writing in the rather large blue book without lines, and everyday she managed to add another page or two.
She once heard someone say that their life was too boring, and they never had anything to write about. This led Heather to be flabbergasted, because she always had pages to write each day, and sometimes she had too much to write and she couldn’t get it all out.
This particular time Heather was writing in her journal, something very strange happened. As she penned the words, the spidery tails of the letters started to grow, and started to tangle up with each other. Soon the whole page was a web of ink, crisscrossing together.
And Heather found herself becoming smaller and smaller, until she was standing on her journal, her feet on a thin strand of ink.
She started to run on the black lines, trying to find the edge of the paper, trying to get out of her journal and her thoughts, but she couldn’t find the end. She was trapped.
It became darker and darker, and she looked up and saw pages of the journal coming down toward her. Someone was closing the book.
In a panic, she fell down to the ground, but as she did so she noticed that the lines of ink had formed tiny words on the page.
It’s time to start using a new pen.