It doesn’t matter.
I very rarely look at my older, archived notebooks, but I like having them. I don’t need them. Perhaps someday I’ll build a bonfire to send them back into the void or bury them in the ground and let them gently return to nature. Perhaps I’ll urge those who carry on after me to just dispose of them, send them in shreds into recycling.
It is the act of making a note, stopping just a moment to think about something and taking the time to write it down, that etches the concept, the object, the event, the thought into my memory. Scribbled notes on the page is the artifact, not the idea that prompted them.
I use my pocket notebooks to capture things in the moment, then typically within the day I transfer those things somewhere else. Or not. When the notebook is full, worn beyond repair, or when my fancy is captured by a new notebook, I review the contents of the old one, then typically add it to the stack of others accumulated across the years.
The notebooks that I fill serve their purpose within days of being used. Their life after that is, for me, only nostalgic.
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