Trappings and Entrapping

I have a problem with journals.
Oh, not the type of journal that are torn and ragged from from years of the abuse and trauma their owners went through. Those are just fine.
I am particularly bitter towards self proclaimed journals and diaries, like the ones at Micheal's or any other store. The ones that have pretty covers and nice, patterned sheets with little inspirational quotes and whatnot in them. Everyone has or has had at least one.
They are deadly.
The very fact that they present themselves as a "Journal" is distressing  They are not journals. All the glitter, fuzz, patterned paper and pink-tinted pages are used exclusively as bait for their trap, designed to ensnare the little hearts and minds of fragile little girls into believing that they are truly journals. If such little girls are anything like I was, then the sight of such finery is irresistibly tempting. Owning such a book; a Journal, would be the pride of their lives. they would swear that if only they could take that cheap lump of over priced glittery tree-pulp and bring it home with them, they would be the owner of a daily journal in which they would spend every day transcribing secrets, routines, stories, and their lives.
It is pitiful how many times I fell into the dark clutches of these journals. I bought them shamelessly, and each one I opened promised a new commitment and a new beginning. I bought so many - and none of them belonged to me.
I believe that self-proclaimed journals are a little self-absorbed. They seduce and ensnare only for a moment, and then leave the new-found journalist without a page of their own to write their pains and grievances. It is almost sinful. Comparable to the bread and water in The Pit and the Pendulum. The first page of a journal is always open and inviting, but the second and the third become cold and harsh. The commitment spurred on by the novelty and invitation of a journal is lost and suddenly, the "journal" is lost from ownership forever. I cannot count how many journals I have bought that have only one or two entries, written as an expected formality.
Of course, this is not true for everyone, nor is it applicable to all self-proclaimed journals. It is only my belief and experience. Had I continued this practice of an unending search for my own journal, I would not be writing this. I would have lost all faith in spontaneous and unplanned writing and given it up long ago.
Thankfully, I was saved. Saved by my first ever emotional storm and trauma that just about drove every part of my mind into madness for the need to write. Saved by a split second decision. Saved by a cheap, half-sized, beat-up Staples memo pad with odd yellow paper and absolutely nothing remarkable about it at all.
Hardly journal material. Yet it means more to me than almost anything else in the world. I can call it my journal because I made it my journal. through a blue bic pen, I forced myself into every page of that insignificant memo pad. I made it listen and accept me and because it had no fancy, fine airs, it was humble enough to accept me.
And that has made all the difference...