This is the end, my only friend, the end
I have finished my current Moleskine journal. Or at least the journal is full, not complete. A journal is never complete. It is a living thing. A living document. It can be returned to, relived, added to, embellished. Like memories.
Just a memory?
It is a memory store. A vault where moments have been captured, but not against their will. They roam like animals in a sanctuary, not a zoo. Some of the memories are dangerous but they are not kept under lock and key.
Why are they dangerous?
They were placed here as a reminder, a signpost that the direction or place they came from was painful. Some pain is good. It tells us something is wrong and we need to act. But other pain is self-inflicted and best left alone.
It is all here. Marking the passing of time from when the journal was first opened, and the first ink spilt across its pristine pages.
This is the end my friend, but not goodbye. I’ll remember you because you remember me…
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