I had a dream the other night that I knew I was dying. The FIRST thing I felt I needed to do in this dream to prepare for this was to go through my notebook and rip up all the pages of things I didn't want people to know. I pictured my room, empty of life. My parents were solemnly going through my belongings, struggling with the decision of whether or not to read my notebook. They felt guilty, but decided to read it anyway because they missed me and it was the closest thing to having a conversation with me that they could find. I couldn't bear the thought of some of these pages being seen by their eyes. I immediately jumped up from my bed in a panic and rifled through my bag until I held the beloved little black book in my hands, and mercilessly began to destroy entire groups of pages. I was vaguely aware of doing this, but in my dreamlike state I felt like that action was reversible and all of the pages could be recovered.
You can imagine my sadness when I woke up in the morning, tired from my sleepwalking, and my trash can was filled with piles of meticulously ruined pages. In a way I'm really sad about this. I don't write anything unless I am afraid of forgetting it. Even if it's not a good memory and it's not pleasant for me to read, I keep it there because I feel like it taught me a vital lesson that will (hopefully) save me from experiencing similar things again.
But in another odd way, I feel lighter. If I did this in my sleep, obviously I didn't want what I ripped up to be associated with me. I was terrified of those pages being what was left behind if I died.
I'm sorry you are so empty, notebook. Only half of your pages remain. But you will be filled soon with more and more pages of life. Grow with me.