A new notebook

Yesterday i got to the end of my notebook, or rather, every page was filled, because i tend to fill them from both ends simultaneously. When a notebook fills up is entirely arbitrary but it still somehow feels like a cause for celebration. So i took a new notebook off the shelf, and opened it, and filled in the first page. It is so clean at the moment, so i defaced it by ripping off the corner.

Like every notebook before it, this one will accompany me everywhere. I will write the things in it that i need to write so that i don’t forget to do anything important, because if i don’t write it, it disappears. The notebook i just finished doesn’t hold the draft to the next great novel or schematics for a faster-than-light starship, it just has lists of tasks and appointments. Finishing a notebook isn’t dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s on my masterpiece, it’s just proof that i’ve done the bare minimum to not spend my whole life of days floundering. In many ways, then, that feeling of accomplishment on filling it up is like a birthday: something to take note of, but in truth, devoid of meaning.