On the front of the notebook is written “5/27/2011-”, meaning there’s still more to write.

My tale is scratched onto the worn pages of this notebook. It’s nothing special, really. Sometimes it’s just a way of journaling at the end of the day. After long bouts of neglect I return to it and tell it what’s been going on with me; the highs of success and other drugs, the lows of adversity, the roller coaster of emotions I go through (sometimes unnecesarily/stupidly).

Despite the amount of time I’ve been using it, anyone who reads it wouldn’t necessarily learn everything about me. I’ve made sure to keep some things to myself. A man needs his secrets, after all.

It started as a way of documenting my adventures in the southwest. Even though those adventures are such a large part of it, it became a staple whenever I pack for any adventure. Up and over a mountain, to a local coffee shop, or on a road trip, I never left home without it.

It’s 2015. The covers are held together poorly with packing tape, many of the pages have been damaged by water despite my best efforts.

Maybe I should pick it up again. It’s been a long time.

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