Hello, friend. Hi, dear diary I’ve downloaded all my excess and overwhelming thoughts and feelings into for the past few years. I wonder who I’ll be when you are all filled up? Why does it feel so literal, the very real possibility of a closing chapter in life, nay, the ending of a saga, coinciding with the completion of a diary that holds the stories of my early twenties? It’s likely just me, as usual attaching too much importance to what is nothing more than an ordinary ritual – white space runs out on some bound sheets so you simply move on to yet another sheaf.
Could I actually jump from one journal to another mid-sentence if I wanted to?
Of course not. The lover of signs and symbolism in me wouldn’t stand for it. So here I am, delaying filling up the pages, trying to save a diary on its last legs. Anything to prolong the status quo and drag out a story I’m not sure I’m ready to end.