At first, timestamping was purely pragmatic—proof for legal disputes, evidence for IP theft. But over time, it became something else: a spiritual practice.
The Shift
Every morning, I timestamp my journal entry. Not because I'm worried someone will steal it, but because it anchors me to this moment.
The hash doesn't just prove the entry existed—it proves I existed, in that state, at that time.
Memory vs. Record
We trust memory, but memory is reconstruction. Every time we recall something, we rewrite it slightly. Timestamping creates an external witness—a record that doesn't shift.
It's not about perfection. It's about honesty. The timeline doesn't lie.
Continuity as Coherence
When you build a timeline of your work—your thoughts, your drafts, your iterations—you see the pattern. You see who you're becoming.
This isn't productivity. It's communion. You're not optimizing for output—you're creating a conversation with your past self.
The Sacred in the Sequence
In a world where everything feels disposable, continuity is resistance. It says: This mattered. I was here. This is the trail I leave.
That's not just proof. It's pilgrimage.