it's all so simple.

have you ever looked back and thought of how different (read: stupid) you were

strange words fluently keyed out on your old journal, sentences flowing with an unfamiliar lucidity, odd usage of punctuation marks and unpleasant phrases, the way of referring and addressing insignificant matters which you now have such a great distaste for?

none of these create a deja vu impact as much as things you truly have not experienced before.

but after a while, you should feel comforted, because despite feeling detached from your old self, verily unrelated, it was you, writing, having been writing ever since. no one else

it might be an old sketch of your past lover, invoking unnecessary sentiments you have long trashed somewhere else

or some photographs, which are deemed impossible to be described in a very idyllic manner

they all have rearranged into some sort of external, alien objects, exotic and inaccessible, "what was i thinking?" playing in loop, inaudibly, crowded silence, from the inside of your head. as though your writing was in swahili, as though every stroke and line in your sketch was drawn with blue blood, as though the photographs had impossible colours in wavelength your receptors always fail to receive.

what are you, now? it's both gratifying and devastating to grow more conscious and aware of yourself, because the more you understand, the more you know, whatever it is, is such a tiny friction, a speck of dust, an unbearable pressure to continuously think which leads to a destructive process of over-analysing; because a lot of things are so important, they are too grand to be digested all at once. still, the knowledge you possess in hands, it's indispensable, hold on to it tight because it might be the only piece of dust you'd ever bring home

now looking at your old self, the more different, the better it is

because it indicates nothing but progress

one day i'd look at this writing and think about the same thing, be always wondering, "what was i thinking?" which is great, because that implies i've had something new to think about, that i have moved far forward, and therefore this would serve only as something of a reminiscence, of an old reminder to keep my feet intact on the ground, to revisit the old sense of attachment to my previous self

that is very much my hopeful version of reality.

what i hate which might happen is when i stop moving forward, when this version of self lingers for too long, when i am no longer able to be as fluidly mobile as before, when all sorts of betterment have stopped, frozen, like an icicle, only mine can't melt away and flow like how it used to, initially.

i hate to think that, growth is only rapid when your cheeks are still flushed and dewy, when your eyes are a pair of two sanguine round balls, when your odour smells of push pop candies and the only set of adolescent cosmetics you can afford.

physically, and mentally, that's the common case

one day i'd grow very slowly, everything else would seem rushing, and it's not that i'm afraid of getting old, it's the distorted sense of time, when you lose the capability of making quick leaps, it's a lamentable state to be in, really.

i want to continually progress, growing unendingly, like you and every other majestic being in this world.

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