It was a Thursday evening and I don't remember my mood or why I decided to scribble in it's first lines during that particular moment.
"Today is Thursday and in this exact moment there is only an hour left in my day at work."
Nothing more and nothing less was written. For the past few years I have been slowly filling black journals in hopes of remembering small moments, names of people, dates, ideas, and things that have been happening around me. Inside I want my future self to read about these mostly random accounts in order to not forget about experiences.
The moleskin that was started for no real reason on August 13th, 2015 is currently sitting opened faced in front of me atop the faded wood of my families' coffee table located centrally within the breakfast nook of our house.
I find myself seated and a semi-fresh cup of kind-of hot coffee is being guarded by one hand while a black inked pen is in marching formation within a tangle of right hand fingers.
After nearly four months of traveling between my hands and pockets, my backpack, forgotten at work, the backseat of my car and countless coffee shop tables, I find myself looking at a blank page within the now faded in color journal.
The last page.
A single sheet of paper is the last line of defense before purchasing another 190 something page directory of wanderings and going from prologue to epilogue.
It was hard to know that four months would go by before finding myself here in this moment, sitting above this book like a human balloon, looking for a way to properly end a chapter of personal accounts.
I didn't know back in August that I'd writing about being a year older, about attending my high school's ten year reunion, celebrating Thanksgiving in addition to Halloween before reaching the end of this moleskin booklet. Those events mixed with scribbles about meeting up with friends, going to work, being with my parents and describing various surroundings have filled most of this leather companion's contents. Reflecting on four months of writing has made me grateful for friends and family and they have been a great source of inspiration not only in writing but also to be a better person. I feel blessed to have them in my life, and to you who is reading this I also feel honored that you have taken time to read this blog post.
With one sheet left I don't really know what to write. Some notes about how the current December day has progressed would be appropriate. I ate some really good breakfast tacos earlier today, maybe that would be worth remembering. Or possibly a random thought that just popped into my mind might seem interesting the next time the booklet finds itself fully opened between the palms of an older self's hands.
With pen tip slightly angled and pressed upon the top left corner of the very last page I feel joyed to be at this point, to have gone this far not only in this particular notebook but in life.
Looking back, the past four months are something I would never elect to replace and it's great to have experienced them. In an instant everything can change, and it's impossible to know what December 11th, 2015 will look like. It feels good to simply be here now.
Gazing to the side window my attention is temporarily distracted by a passing car. I press firmly with the black inked pen between the grey lines of the very last page.
It's just a day in December, but this time I know what mood I'm in.
"If you've made it this far, don't stop, keep going."
Outside it's raining. I can sense that it's almost time to get ready for work.
If I hurry maybe I can swing by the bookstore.
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