Notes are usually scribbled and hard to read. They are sometimes written in a hurry and at other times rather leisurely. They require no luster and are very personal in essence. The beauty of the lines themselves does not guarantee the existence of significant content within. They require no special conditions to come into existence, what matters is that they be noted. They are small thoughts that need to be observed collectively in order to reach a general outlook. They contain some level of ingenuity and a great deal of indifference toward being understood. They are fluid and at times seem contradictory. Notes are not gateways but rather small openings that cannot be traversed, but merely used to see or hear something. They do not guarantee the conveyance of any specific notion. They are neither too personal to be rendered incomprehensible, nor too general so as to make a statement. They are thoughts that have no essence until written; only when noted do they come into existence, a process through which they are inevitably distanced from their initial thought. Thus, writing becomes a part of thinking. Through notes, we mark our intellectual boundaries and limitations.
I have busied myself with these notes for years now. They form my daily journal entries. They are registered so as not to be forgotten, for me to know how I’ve passed my days, for me to remember, to bear in mind.