Blog Reading Time: 1 minute
Today as I sat to write in my journal, I realised that it is running out of pages. A feeling of resentment fell over me.
I have filled and maintained countless journals over the past 5-6 years. They have helped me prioritize my day-to-day tasks, lent me their shoulder when I felt overwhelmed, and ears to my seemingly endless rants, and been a patient listener to my deep philosophies.
This particular diary was gifted to me by a friend. It is small, colourful, and pages so rough that some pens wouldn’t even write nicely on it. It was the type I would not have bought on my own initially. But my discomfort didn’t last long. I had spent so much time with it, written and shared so much with it, that I started seeing it more as a partner than a diary.
Today I become teary when I write my final entry into it. Every word I write brings me one word closer to its end.
And though I do not like this part, I know this is going to repeat itself with the next diary; discomfort when transitioning into the new one, followed by comfort, followed by habitualness, followed by the feeling that it’s like a partner, and then finally the day of its last entry.
It would be a good thing to have right? A book of your choice with the same size, but with infinite pages.
The crux is that nothing is permanent. “This too shall pass” said Abraham Lincoln. It’s better to realise this, that everything we witness, feel or experience, is here for it’s own time. It will serve its purpose and one day go. Punch him in the face who tells you to be detached from everything because nothing is here to stay. The idea is to love everything fully until it’s there, so that when the time comes, you can loosen that grip which you never let tight.
I bid farewell to my diary. I had a good time with you and I thank you for being.