Things to say to a former self, who would not listen anyway

At my most prolific, I once filled pages of journals – volumes of small spiral notebooks, word documents that reach more than a hundred pages. I found some of my old journals while cleaning. Cringe-worthy, yes, but at least they painted a pretty vivid picture of the girl I once was.

Was. I wonder where that girl had gone. Sometimes, I wonder what that girl’s doing now. I wonder what has gotten the better of her, why she doesn’t write anymore. Wonder what she’s holding back, what’s holding her back to begin with. Wonder why she’s settling for single paragraph-updates. Or why she’s obsessing with status phrases instead of writing lengthy stuff.

Maybe she hasn’t got the time. I guess getting older does that to you – there’s more things to do, less time to finish them all. It’s inevitable, how you meet all these people and how as you grow older they expect you to be wiser, to be better, to be tougher, to outdo yourself with every outing.

I wish I could tell her that the thing with time is that it’s always there; and it’s all just a matter of how you 1) make do and 2) make some for things that matter. I wish I could also tell her that the thing with adults is that they are wont to stretch you until you break and you would, soon, if you don’t know how to pace yourself.

Or maybe, just maybe, for so long writing has been tied with some other habit, some other habit that she’d thought better to let go of. Well, what to do with habits eh? Long after you’ve quit them, they still manage to pull one right over you by taking a few things that matter with them. Then again, seven years of smoking ought to have damaged a significant portion of the brain, and perhaps this thing called writer’s block is among the whole spectrum of known and lesser-known quitting side effects. What to do then? Acquire another vice, perhaps? Which would be ridiculous, considering how last year had been spent mostly keeping clean. I wish I could tell her to stop whining that she’s too young to be this old, because young is mostly illusion by now and old is the new young, or something. It all boils down to perspective, really: you could think you’re still too young, or you could think you’re just old enough. Because really, in some cultures, 24 is old enough for marriage, and aren’t you just glad you’re not being forced into that? Haha.

Or maybe, just maybe, she’s run out of things to say. Which is scary and sad, considering. I wish I could tell her something she could go on with. Curiously, though, I’ve run out of things to say as well.