I just finished another journal.
I always love to begin the new book. Every page, completely bare, to be inscribed with the words of life yet unlived.
Who knows the marvelous ideas I'll come across, the beautiful old ones I'll revisit in new and striking ways? Who can say what sort of person I'll be when I close the last page of this new journal after months or a year of life? In which ways I'll have grown? Which new people I'll have met? What sorrow or pain or joy or sweetness I will come across? Empty pages bring a special kind of hope. And journal - at least for me - helps to reconcile our futility when faced with the infinite momentum of time.
Every time you close an old journal, it's time to open a new one.