I recently came across some old journal entries from high school that I had completely forgotten about, and I was simultaneously amazed by how much things have changed and unsettled by how much they’re the same. I felt like I was reading a log of my present reactions, not past ones. The fact that I still think the same is comforting but also extremely disturbing. Have I not psychologically grown at all in four years?
On a less vague matter, I’m extremely concerned that my writing skills have deteriorated. I honestly don’t think I can write like I used to even if I tried, and these samples were just me writing for myself — it was pure thought-spilling, and it’s significantly better composed than anything I’ve written recently while actively trying to produce something good.
Thus, I’ve decided to start keeping a journal again: first, to encourage myself to write more just to write, and second, so I have some record to reflect on in another four years.
Unfortunately, I’m much more paranoid now, so it’s going to take a while for me to settle on an appropriate medium that’s both secure and convenient.
Oh, and I’m supposed to be writing an essay right now. But all I want to do is moodily self-reflect as I chug 99-cent sweet tea from a can — which I guess paints a rather incongruous picture.
I’ve never been picture-perfect anyway.