I was looking through my done works last night, my hands diving into the morass of papers and notebooks and envelopes, I found a thin spiral notebook that I'd almost irretrievably forgotten. As I flipped through its mostly blank pages I saw something very precious: letters I'd scribbled down 2 years ago, lines and emotions I thought I'd lost -- reading it was like rediscovering a part of myself buried so deep inside it was like a stranger to me. Wow, I remember thinking, I could write like this 2 years ago?
And with that thought came a momentary sadness; I am not the same person who wrote those lines, and something in me -- the voice of fear, maybe -- whispers that I have lost whatever grace had been given her through the changes that have been wrought in me these past years. Maybe I'm devolving. Time has brought so many trials, so many opportunities to compromise, so many chances to throw away talent and energy and passion...
Then I sneezed. I stood up and walked away from the pile of paper, rubbing my nose.
I'd like to rewrite those letters someday. But I think I should get better first.
And with that thought came a momentary sadness; I am not the same person who wrote those lines, and something in me -- the voice of fear, maybe -- whispers that I have lost whatever grace had been given her through the changes that have been wrought in me these past years. Maybe I'm devolving. Time has brought so many trials, so many opportunities to compromise, so many chances to throw away talent and energy and passion...
Then I sneezed. I stood up and walked away from the pile of paper, rubbing my nose.
I'd like to rewrite those letters someday. But I think I should get better first.
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