Another Day, Cloudy Memory

There are volumes filled with incessant stream of consciousness, an outpouring of thoughts which skid and slide and sink into the surface of the paper upon which they are written. Half formed thoughts, scrawled sentences, single words; there is not a more comprehensive insight into a mind than those books. You would be able to build an entire psychological profile from those pages.

I fear that someone will read those journals one day; there is too much in them which would embarrass the writer. I could not face the truth written there, under the influence of various emotions; anguish, hope, fear, love, anger - all make their mark and leave traces. Snapshots of a time, a place, the people, the feelings.

Burning them seems to be the easy option, for it means they cannot be found, and yet, it also means that their contents will be lost. Are memories worthless enough to be burned? There may come a time where I would give anything to be able to remember those times, and feel a great sense of loss in discovering that in a moment of insecurity, I had destroyed the only record I had of them. I shall not walk away from them, but nor shall I leave them unguarded.

For, every entry points to one undeniable truth: