Superman's dead.
I finished a journal today.
A paper one.
It makes me feel so accomplished.
It makes me feel so sad.
I want to mourn the loss of my poor journal.
It isn't lost or gone of course, but I want to mourn its retirement.
I want to get up and celebrate having completed it.
So much of my life is in this journal.
I've never finished a journal that was just a journal before.
They've always been letters, or else half-finished.
I wrote poetry in that journal.
I cried in that journal.
I poured joy, hope, sadness, tears, laughter, thoughts, and my soul into its pages.
Hello, here is my life.
All in that journal.
My precious, beautiful Superman journal.
What do I do with it now?
I can't just set it on the shelf.
Not with mortal books like Dickens and Austen.
It would have to have its own special shelf with a spotlight.
Maybe its own library, accompanied only by like-minded books such as Alice in Wonderland and Anne of Green Gables.
Only an elite few.
Perhaps I could just carry it around in my bag forever.
But then I always hated carrying it in my bag.
It got battered, and I don't like that.
I usually carried it in my hand instead.
I certainly can't do that forever.
I have way too many books, it wouldn't feel special enough on the shelf.
I feel like I'll be cheating on this journal or dishonouring the memory if I start a new one.
It's like a first love.
It contains my first love.
Oi how attached I've become to this journal.
Sorry, livejournal, but you'll never compare to the living, breathing quality of my Superman journal.