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Paris

In the end, we’ll all become stories.
— Margaret Atwood

It never occurred to me the things we leave behind.

There were boxes and boxes of old letters for sale in one of the stalls at Les Puces. They were in French, so I couldn’t read more than a random word or two. As I rifled through the letters, looking at handwriting and stamps and words someone had taken the time to write down decades ago, I thought about what we leave behind when we’re gone.

I have this notebook from my favorite store in the world, a stationary shop right by the Arno river in Florence, Italy. It took me at least 20 minutes to choose which one I wanted to buy, and I’ve had it since July, but I’m still afraid to write in it. Like somehow my words aren’t worthy, aren’t good enough for its beautiful pages.

I’m starting to realize that it doesn’t matter. It’s mine. The words are mine. And I have enough of them. They should be written down. My stories — both fiction and non, all true — should be left behind.

I’m working up the courage. Soon, I’ll fill its pages