From the back of my journal, after I put the last words of the last entry down, a letter to myself written in 2013 that I’d forgotten about falls out of the keepsake pocket.
I open it with no memory of the contents.
I open it with no memory of the contents.
I read it and my heart hurts. It’s painfully earnest, honest, and sincere. Past me writing to future me with wishes of well being.
Sadly, the questions I hoped to have answered by now and some of the hopes I had for my life have not come to pass.
Others are going wonderfully.
Sadly, the questions I hoped to have answered by now and some of the hopes I had for my life have not come to pass.
Others are going wonderfully.
My takeaway is that I’ve changed a lot less in the last 7 years than it might feel like I have internally, for good or ill. 😔
Still worried about the same things. Still grasping for the same answers.
Slightly more self assured, wiser, and perhaps a little harder.
Still worried about the same things. Still grasping for the same answers.
Slightly more self assured, wiser, and perhaps a little harder.
And it ends with a reminder that the only really important thing to me, in my life, is love—not in the romantic sense, but in the desire for everyone around me to flourish sense... myself included.
I’m not sure I’m living up to my own ideals consistently enough.
I’m not sure I’m living up to my own ideals consistently enough.
• • •
Missing some Tweet in this thread? You can try to
force a refresh
