Where Words Go

I've had the same journal since I learned the importance of words, since I learned how to see things- I'm still learning. I've had the same journal for four years. Since I was a freshman in high school. Though that says nothing of my competence to fill it, it means I only wrote down what I really believed was important, what I really want to remember when I flip through the terrible, angsty poetry and lyrics I've written in the last few years on days like today when I can read what states of mind I used to be in. I've written things that make me cringe when I read them, I've written things that make no sense, I've written things that I'm so glad I wrote down so I could remember later, and I've wasted a lot of pages doing so.

Like journals, life is living progress, and in our journals we breathe in that life with words, thoughts, anger, fear, etc. The only thing is that journals only have so many pages in them. I have four pages left. four empty pages. Now I'm not trying to say that My life is going to end when I fill those four pages, but my concern is: what is going to happen when the journal is complete? Am I going to lose those four years of growing up? I won't carry that journal around with me everywhere I go, and I won't remember to flip through them whenever I want. I'll have a new journal with me, completely empty. I feel like when those four pages fill up, I'll put the past four years into a box and lock it up. Does this mean I have to change? Must I say goodbye to the past and move on? Death is inevitable- the earth does not mourn the loss of its people. New life is created.
Alas! I will always hate change.