My diary's last entry

My diary's last entry, 
more than ten years old,
was "I think it's going to work out.
I'm coming to some grip, somehow 
- but I don't think this helps
me now. I'm going to lay 
this pen aside. I think it's best 
to leave my thoughts unfixed 
in ink, to wander free invisibly 
and without shame of what 
some future self might think. 
Dear diary, I think we're through.
In testament to all we've done,
which I have duly set down true, 
dear diary I'm leaving you. I 
might come back to jot a line,
or write a song, or some perverse
repurposing of thine blank page, 
but something tells me your way 
isn't mine."

That was the last entry. 
The first as well.
And I was more than ten years old,
when suddenly some thing took hold
and broke the spell.