A friend gave this journal to me for Christmas some time in high school (way back when flip phones were cool), and I remember thinking what an odd gift it was. But after graduation, when the small yellow writing tablet I'd been scribbling poetry in ran out of pages, I dug this spiral-bound stack of paper out of a drawer and kept writing.
For nearly seven years I wrote in this book, sometimes laying it aside for months, and sometimes flipping to a new page every day. It contains more memories and emotion than any diary I ever kept, and in far fewer words. You've seen some of its contents spilled on this blog -- all of the poems I've posted originated from this journal's pages.
I knew that I couldn't end it with just any poem, and during a solitary walk this evening I found, if not perfect, sufficient words to fill the last page. It's the end, and yet, somehow, it feels like the beginning.
here's to hope--
to having a voice,
to being a voice
the blank page of invitation
a line, a letter, a word,
a soul on paper