Dear Diary,

I’m afraid the time has come for us to part ways.
My faithful sycophant. My platonic partner-in-crime. My unpaid therapist. My patient listener. You endured my incoherent ruminations and repetitive contemplations for one long year, a Sisyphean task if you ask some.

As I flip through your crispy pages, I’m overwhelmed by an uneasy sadness. 2024 was a year in passing. Nothing happened. At least not to me. Yes, I made some new friends and lost some old friends, tried some new hobbies and quit some old hobbies, gained some new kilos, and… oh well. In the wake of the devastating loss of lives on our war-hungry planet, the ramblings that litter your pages seem ever so petulant and childish. I feel wasteful and exhausted, like I squandered another year of my life, just breathing, just daydreaming.

Do I have a purpose?
Am I taking up space?
Should I be ‘carpe dieming’ every single day?

These questions are subliminal and ever-present in my mind, evidenced by their starring role in most of my entries throughout the year.

The ancient Greeks believed that if proper burial rites were not performed for the dead, their souls would remain trapped between the world of the living and the underworld, wandering aimlessly in perpetuity. I sometimes feel Earth is the destination for these souls. We are the aimless wanderers, trapped in delusions of grandeur about our own self-importance, a cruel prank played by the gods in jest. Dramatic as it may seem, this thought gives me hope – it is not just me who is stuck in this limbo, but each and every single living being on this planet.

Maybe not just living beings. You too are in limbo. Listening to my thoughts, ideas, and musings but not being able to respond. Maybe that is your purpose. Maybe that is our purpose. To simply exist.
When I turn over this page, your life will cease and you will hibernate in the drawers for a few years and then in the cupboards and then in the lofts. I might give you a brief flip-through once in a while but consider this my final goodbye.