There are a great many reasons one may find themselves employing a journal. One may need a resting place for ideas not yet realized; dumping grounds for emotional effluvia. Maybe a device for self-soothing. Mine have been all of these and more to me. Despite this, I’ve held onto only one in my almost 40 years of life. Only lately have I been inundated with a desire for preservation of things. In examination of this new propensity I’ve come to realize the inherent danger in it. Ephemera from the past has a way of tricking you into believing it should serves as much more than a reference point. It threatens to inspire naught but stagnation. This is why I am careful not to worship it. It isn’t a sacred object. No, it is simply a book. “But Xevi!”, you proclaim with childish indigence “What of your memories? What if there are written gems to be found in those pages?” Well, my seed, to that I say fu[c]n[k] you! All of my best work is in front of me; not behind. Even with that, the inclination towards worshipping the past is there. Society’s obsession with nostalgia seeping in my own. That is the impetus behind this piece. “The Tome”