Burn all my journals if I die
While watching some random content creator on YouTube talk about their journal collection throughout the years of their life, a morbid thought came to my mind. The idea of having accumulated, tangible traces of my entirely private thoughts in one place, knowing full well they would survive me, is so depressing. When we die, these books would most likely be meaningless paraphernalia to everyone else (except to those who love you, if they even care). These books might be thrown away or sealed away in boxes in a storage room or in the attic somewhere, forgotten. It offends me, such mental image. The mental image of the entirety of my [past] life, being considered 'garbage'. If I am lucky to have someone who loves me and knows about my true self (closeted pansexual man in a very homophobic, religious country) inherit these journals I have, the thought of them finally moving on after my death, manifesting in their eventual neglect of these only worldly remnants of mine, is even more depressingly bleak to me.
Why do I feel this way?
I subscribe to the idea that anything I leave in this world is immaterial once I die. Then why does the idea of my written thoughts surviving me, deeply troubling? Is it because unlike my belongings that do not inherently carry my inner thoughts when I was alive, my journals are somewhat an extension of my Self? Is that why? That unlike my beloved laptop, my treasured phone, my cherished copies of books I love, my favorite sweater, and my collection of sneakers, my notebooks contain tangible fragments of what made the living me, me?
I think that's it.
These journals immortalizes the abstract Me. It renders Me corporeal, tangible, something you can read, feel, even touch. I love the idea of strangers reading my writings. I love it when people read me, and I meant this both literally and figuratively. So I think the idea that people can continue keeping the written Me frozen in the amber of time, even after my earthly departure, genuinely torments me a lot.
Whoever ends up keeping my journals and notebooks when I die, do me a favor and make a bonfire out of them – call it my funeral pyre. And then while it burns, play some of my favorite music. And dance around it. Around me.