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The black journal

At the start of every year, a resolution to write about life, to express my thoughts and to save ideas arises and a journal is bought in the moment of pure delight. Days pass by the journal that is supposed to be filled with my ideas and experience is just carried around in the bag, waiting for that moment when it will be used.

The pages are torn out at times to write down notes and phone numbers, the story has yet to begin; the logs are yet to be entered. A sunday finally arrives, the first percolated page is filled with a Index, with the thought of wanting to refer it again. Then again the cycle beings, until the book is finally removed from the bag and kept on the shelf.

This day marks its new journey, where it might be used by any one in the family or may just be kept untouched, away from all its desires. Another day arrives around June this time its sad and serious, thoughts must be bought on paper before they start hurting.Each page now marks a new problem that has been faced. Each entry in a moment of desperation to be happy, to forget all the past. Entries made over random days and months trying to create a habit, but never managing to change from the reality.

The book holds the worst days, for happiness was always accompanied with people and it was only the sadness that was lonely. The book regains its position form the shelf to the bag. This time for good, entires are made on a daily basis now, things are logged in happy or sad. Life has really improved after this, with a quote and a daily word, things seem to be going better than expected.

The pages now have stains on them, for they have survived many meals and dinner conversations, but the entries doubled. The book, has a black cover with nodes of piano printed over it. The last few pages have random calculations, and code written over them. There are pages with doodles and boxes drawn all over, no memory seems to relate to those pages. The words already fading away, for it was written with a pencil or probably was a incomplete note that was supposed to be transferred.

The book with quite a few pages remaining joins the asylum with other books with empty pages which will probably be never used. The year is over, for the book and its owner as well. The entries that never managed to leave the book, still are a part of my memory. The moment I bought the dairy still fresh in my repository of images. The journey might resume someday, but it won't be this day.

The pages turning yellow from withering and aging, the journal will always hold the evils that I've escaped from this past year. The book is never gone but just absent, from the reality that I live in the now.

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