Many years ago, I stumbled upon a strange looking notebook in a stationery shop in London, England.
It was small, maybe slightly bigger than the palm, consisting of paper in cream yellow, bound in velvety red leather with burnished edges.
I didn’t know why, but I fell in love with it the moment I saw it. It had a certain air of rustic charm around it. I couldn’t really describe it, but it looked simply magical. And it intrigued me even more when I saw the price tag: one measly pound.
I picked the notebook up and flipped it open. My heart dropped when I saw dirty smudges of ink stains on many of its pages. No wonder it’s so cheap, I thought. It was hardly new.
Then, something caught my eye. On one of the inner pages, there was a cursive scribble on its outer margins in bright pink:
“Remember the Pause.”
For some reason I didn’t quite understand, those words had resonated with me deep in my soul. At that moment, owning that book suddenly became important to me. I didn’t know why. Buying it just felt right.
Heeding my instincts, I grabbed the notebook, walked to the shopkeeper and handed him a quid.
And that was how it got started.