War
They say words are immortal. That long after your death you will live through the things you've chosen to commit to the page. They are your thoughts, feelings, and experiences, your voice preserved for generations to come; a snapshot of a person otherwise forgotten. But what do these words mean if you are immortal? Is it worth the risk, then, to share yourself? To create a tangible record of what you've done when, inevitably, you'd rather forget so very much of it? He wonders this as he stares down at the small yet heavy object in his hand, feeling all at once self-indulgent, ridiculous, and in desperate need to express himself. Just admitting that this thing exists is something he struggles with but given the hell that has been his life thus far, and the knowledge that he has no chance of escaping it, this one small thing has been his salvation – even when he doesn't want to be saved. He chuckles at this thought. He can't help it, because for all of his overblown, war-torn ruminations, for all of the anguish this thing has caused him to relive and release, release and relive, there remains a truth that to anyone else seems so innocuous and simple.
The Doctor has a diary.