Do not read this journal.

Not because its contents are private, or because I cling to secrets too dearly kept. I hold no illusions of privacy, and I care nothing for the shallow refuge of secrecy. My life has been riddled with things far greater, far darker, than the petty comfort that concealment would grant me.

No, I will spare you the burden. What is written here has already broken one mind, mine. There are truths within these pages that do not let go once they are known. They fester. They whisper. They erode. You may think yourself strong enough to bear them, but strength is only ever tested when it is far too late.

You may wonder, then: “Why write at all, if not to share?” That question haunted me, too. The answer is not so simple, but I will attempt to explain myself. I write so that someone may find me, even if it’s a mere shadow of who I once was. I write so there will be some record of when I was here and where I have been. I write so if my memory fades, I can look back. I write more for me, than for you.

These words are written long after the dust has settled, even if time itself has long since lost meaning to me. What I record here is not memory as it was, but memory as it endures: fractured, uncertain, and still whispering in the dark.

Besides, I know the human mind. How we think, what we do, even why we do it. We cannot resist temptation. Tell a soul not to look into the dark, and their eyes will adjust to seek what waits there. Warn them not to open a door, and their hand will already be turning the handle. So I know you will read, because you were told not to. I knew it from the moment ink first touched the page.

But if you must read, if your curiosity has already condemned you. Then at least heed this one plea: do not read these words aloud. The written word is powerful enough, but the spoken word gives shape. It breathes life into things that ought never to stir. What lies dormant in these entries must remain so, else what plagues me will not stop with me.

You think I exaggerate. You think words are harmless scratches on paper. But words can bind gods, summon shades, and crack the minds of men. What is myth but memory written down? What is prayer but words spoken into the void? Do not be so naïve as to think you are safe because you believe yourself rational. I was once the same.

So I will write, you will read, and perhaps the cycle will continue. Or perhaps you will be wiser than I and close this book while you still have the chance. Perhaps you will not. Either way, these words now belong to you as much as they belong to me.

This is my final warning.