Fucking Index Cards, Man
There’s something in my core that I only become aware of when I see a blank page. It’s something heavy and over time I’ve learned to ignore the weight of it soon after I feel it, but I always feel it.
The pauses between seeing the page, feeling the weight, and moving my pencil are short if I’m careful. If I’m not then the pauses will drag on and even attack me while I’m filling the page.
This applies to journaling, writing, and even putting down a recommendation for or from a friend.
The blank page is powerful and when it’s bound to other blank pages in a notebook the entire thing has more stopping power than grade school embarrassment.
I still have blank notebooks I’m waiting to impress with a good idea, but will I use an index card for a coaster. I will use an index card to flush a public toilet if I’m wearing a nice pair of shoes.
I don’t give a damn about index cards which is why I love them.
There is no passive-aggressive stone in my chest that gives me an ambiguous shrug when I see an index card.
The only thoughts that have ever stopped me while writing on a 3x5 were a series of questions I asked myself when I saw a waitress bringing a tray of shots over to the table just as I felt the twinge of ration thoughts ruining my good time.
There is not a moment I don’t have a stack of cards in reach. I buy them in bulk and will throw a stack of blanks away if they get shabby without any hesitation or guilt.
If I write something good on one I will transcribe it in my notebook or just tape it in there. If a card doesn’t get in a notebook or another person’s pocket it goes in the trash because it’s just a piece of low-quality card stock.
Index cards are trash that will be improved with any addition unlike notebooks which have more worth unused than the weight of an index card in gold.