Down memory lane
Unable to sleep last night, I decided to finish reading a book I should have finished reading last year. Two pages into the narrative, I remembered why I stopped reading.
Then the thought crossed my mind to go through my old journals. I remember that I would write almost everyday during my highschool and college years. Now I keep them in one big box-- all sorts of spiral notebooks filled with memories from a sem or two every year.
I forgot which one contained which year already, so I grabbed whatever notebook I first saw. I began reading, expecting to want to stop reading the awkward handwriting and my narration of almost insignificant events magnified by emotions.
Strangely, I went on... reading entry after entry... feeling like I was reading someone else's experiences.
Some events, I could no longer recall. Others, I did recall with great clarity with the help of some cues (someone's saying something, the color of someone's clothes, a name...)
Regardless of whether I remembered the events or not, one thing was clear to me-- I had so much pent-up frustration that I had to write out. At some point, I would even ask myself why I didn't act on anything. I had so many questions, so many thoughts, so many observations... but I don't recall ever acting on them.
Perhaps the mere act of writing all those thoughts out helped me cope, helped me forget.
I felt my sadness, frustration, elation, joy... all scribbled on those pages... I had so many things going, or so many things which I perhaps didn't have enough maturity to properly act on. Missed opportunities, a lack of assertion, money problems--- the problems would vary day by day.
I kind of miss being that 18 year old. The high-spirited girl who did not want to give up fighting despite all the problems. At the end of every entry-- no matter how vindictive as my goals sounded-- there was always that hope to strive to become a better self for society.
Is that what they call "spunk"? Perhaps I shed that "spunk" when I realized that there were other things I had to gain. Maturity calls for the necessary shedding of habits and perspectives which keep one in a childish way of thinking... at the same time, a few characteristics change.
When I closed that notebook, containing a year's worth of events and thoughts, I was convinced that I had changed over that time. At the very least, I can now laugh at my juvenile tactics and thoughts... and ask myself why I agonized over that person who probably gave me little thought. Who knows what he thought of me... for a while, I'd constantly be bothered by that thought. But at least now I can say out loud... "WHO CARES?"
Then the thought crossed my mind to go through my old journals. I remember that I would write almost everyday during my highschool and college years. Now I keep them in one big box-- all sorts of spiral notebooks filled with memories from a sem or two every year.
I forgot which one contained which year already, so I grabbed whatever notebook I first saw. I began reading, expecting to want to stop reading the awkward handwriting and my narration of almost insignificant events magnified by emotions.
Strangely, I went on... reading entry after entry... feeling like I was reading someone else's experiences.
Some events, I could no longer recall. Others, I did recall with great clarity with the help of some cues (someone's saying something, the color of someone's clothes, a name...)
Regardless of whether I remembered the events or not, one thing was clear to me-- I had so much pent-up frustration that I had to write out. At some point, I would even ask myself why I didn't act on anything. I had so many questions, so many thoughts, so many observations... but I don't recall ever acting on them.
Perhaps the mere act of writing all those thoughts out helped me cope, helped me forget.
I felt my sadness, frustration, elation, joy... all scribbled on those pages... I had so many things going, or so many things which I perhaps didn't have enough maturity to properly act on. Missed opportunities, a lack of assertion, money problems--- the problems would vary day by day.
I kind of miss being that 18 year old. The high-spirited girl who did not want to give up fighting despite all the problems. At the end of every entry-- no matter how vindictive as my goals sounded-- there was always that hope to strive to become a better self for society.
Is that what they call "spunk"? Perhaps I shed that "spunk" when I realized that there were other things I had to gain. Maturity calls for the necessary shedding of habits and perspectives which keep one in a childish way of thinking... at the same time, a few characteristics change.
When I closed that notebook, containing a year's worth of events and thoughts, I was convinced that I had changed over that time. At the very least, I can now laugh at my juvenile tactics and thoughts... and ask myself why I agonized over that person who probably gave me little thought. Who knows what he thought of me... for a while, I'd constantly be bothered by that thought. But at least now I can say out loud... "WHO CARES?"