I actually spend some time each day going back, retracing steps, remembering old times, rereading old words. There is an empty place where that time was given to other things: to other people/someone else. It feels wrong to fill it in with anything else, but even if it were possible, trying to cram anything else in doesn't work. That hole just keeps spitting everything else out like an inverted blackhole.
Today, I went back to my old - much older - blog posts. As I've mentioned here a few times, these are hidden in my lucid iridescence blogs and some older tidbits where I used to post 'thoughts of the day' are hidden in my golden memories blogs. Each time I revisit, reread, I am so mesmerized by that person who is speaking - even though it was me.
I actually have a bad habit of never editing any of my blogs. I write whatever that comes to mind and other than the perfunctory skimming for spelling mistakes, if any, I just usually submit without further revisions.
Sometimes I feel like I would love to have an interview with myself. The younger me with this older, somewhat more cynical (though I averred I was the most cynical when younger) me. I have a lot of posts that are dedicated to love and I used to write a lot about this enigmatic prince charming/soulmate who I knew would be mine...one day. If I one day forgot this fact then maybe I would in future wonder who I was writing to, where did that person go. And the stranger thing now is that even with a flesh-and-blood model, the substantiated version of those dreams, I could almost ask the same thing. In fact, one of the problems I have with life is that I could pretty much ask this of everyone I've gotten close to. "Where did that person go?"
Maybe, just maybe, I could ask the question of that young and dreamy-eyed writer of posts. Maybe that is what I am doing when I go back and hover my cursor over the words she once wrote - sometimes with big grin, sometimes with a quiet smile, sometimes and too often, with a lot of tears. Maybe this version of me going over those words somehow, over a time-space continuum, actually makes contact with that younger girl who scribbled down words while tears coursed down her face; maybe while she was writing, she was able to compose herself and find a way to straighten her shoulders and face the world again because, if no one else did, this older me was able to peer over her shoulder, to caress her head, to tuck away a strand of hair tenderly, to kiss her tear-stained cheek and tell her, telepathically, that you will survive because you are my reason and remembrance for continuing ever more.
