Not the big days — you keep those. The Tuesday ones. What the flat smelled like, who you were worried about, the joke that worked. memtale is somewhere to put them.
Free to start. Nothing to install.
Writing in it
No prompts asking how you feel. No streak to keep alive. No one reading over your shoulder, ever.
Some evenings it is a paragraph about your father. Most evenings it is what you ate and that you were tired. In ten years you will be glad of both, and surprised by which one you reread.
Look back
This is the part that makes it worth keeping. Not a feed — memtale never sends you a notification. It just leaves things where you will find them.
“The flat is boxes. I labelled one ‘miscellaneous’ and haven’t opened it since.”
The walk to the river. Four times now, always in spring.
“The thing about the Renault story is—” and then nothing. It is still there if you want it.
Small hours has not heard from you in nine days. It does not mind.
Years in
How often, when, and what you kept returning to. Days counted, never a streak to protect.
You wrote on 412 days out of 1,460. That is not a score. That is 412 days you will still have when you are eighty.
Mostly after nine, once the flat goes quiet.
Private
Nobody reads this. Not us, not anyone who works here, not anyone who ever buys us.
Because we genuinely cannot get in, we cannot let you back in either. Keep your recovery code somewhere real — on paper, in a drawer. Lose it along with your devices and the journal closes for good.
That sounds severe until you consider the alternative. A company that can always let you back in is a company that can always read it.
Bring what you have
If you have kept a journal before, bring it with you. The words, the photographs, the dates and the places all come across.
Where you were, how you slept, how far you walked. Not because it is data, but because when you read the entry back, that was the day.
The moon that night. What was happening in the world, while you were writing about your own small corner of it.
You choose the type, the width, the light or the dark. Something you return to for a decade should still be a pleasure in year nine.