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I’ve been keeping a paper journal since my high school days. The oldest one I have was written in1978. It a yellow wire spiral-bound notebook, the type children brought to school in those days. Its contents are painful to read: it is filled with teenage angst, written in not-the-best prose or penmanship. On the other hand, it makes me smile to consider how everything I fretted over back then all came to naught – and my writing abilities improved too.

For the past few decades, my written journals entries’ contents have become more recording happenings and events, rather than a receptacle of self-reflections; I use them as reference books to look up when this, that, or another thing happened. For some time I’ve been meaning to change this. I want to return to composition. Getting a fountain pen may inspire me to do so, as would making quiet time each day to write.

This first journal of mine makes me wonder about my last one, what it would be like both in content and form. I am on the look-out for a quality journal, not like the usual ones I buy ever at Barnes and Noble every December. I want one well-made and leather-bound, something out of a Dickens novel, for that would be apropos. The Last Journal would go on the shelf where I keep my journals, and be continually pushed aside with the completion of another year’s tome. It will stand there on the far right side, waiting. Ideally I would know when I was in my last year of life. Then I will pull down and open it to write my final thoughts this one last time.

Few have the fate of knowing the end is coming; we usually die more suddenly, ‘taken off’, as they say. If I were to drop dead from stroke or an accident and be deprived of writing in The Last Journal, it would have filled a more important purpose: seeing this leather-bound journal on a daily basis served as a momento mori item; it would have kept me conscious of not wasting time on needless worries and wasteful endeavors.

Yes, this is a very good idea. I will make it so.

Open at the end of things

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