As I take the final steps towards the culmination of a very long journey, I find myself being forced to contend with a cornucopia of emotions that I am at a loss to reconcile.
Through some stroke of fate, destiny or lets call it chance…
I stumbled across an old bag containing my journals and notebooks; initially, I stared at it, lost in thought and unsure if I should act as if I never saw it.
I unzipped the bag pulled out each book delicately, as if it were fine china.
These journals spanned a large swath of time from my freshman year of high school to my time in undergrad.
And… In reading the thoughts, dreams and aspirations of this young man, I was moved, truly moved.
I sat quietly, contemplating whether I let this young man down.
He was slowly fitting the pieces together, figuring out his place in the world.
He was angry, but not yet jaded by the passage of time as writing served as his therapy.
Oddly enough, the more I read the more I felt as if I didn’t know this person.
But, I had to remind myself… That this “he” was “me” albeit a younger version.
Then again, isn’t knowing yourself an oxymoron?