tacit fondness

I started writing a blog post last year.  It was pretty long, about twice as long as my average post.  The subject was primarily a message I had found in my 11th-grade yearbook.  It was a message that I had written to myself.

When I found that message, I was really impressed with myself.  Although my yearbook was also full of other people telling me off for pulling a stupid stunt like writing my own message, I didn't see it that way.  Not only was it a clever move, but the message itself was a poignant meditation on friendship and sincerity.

I liked it so much, I knew I had to write a post about it.  Maybe I just wanted to show off how emotionally intelligent I was, even at 17 years old.  So I wrote this extensive post, but there was only one problem -- I didn't actually have the yearbook with me when I wrote it, and I wanted to include the message as a direct quote.  So the draft sat in my computer, waiting for the day I might remember to pull out the yearbook and finish it.

That day came last week.  I opened the yearbook, navigated to the last page, and realized with some dismay that, on rereading, I didn't think the message was nearly as meaningful as when I'd first found it.  Maybe I was just primed to appreciate that sort of the thing at the time.  Whatever the reason, I realized I'd never be able to put up that post.  It reflected my feelings at one point, I guess, but no longer, and it would be disingenuous to pretend like it still meant the same thing to me.

(Just so we're on the same page, no, I am not going to show you the quote now, or likely ever.)

I still think it's a cute message, and far from a bad one.  But it's not something I'd feel particularly proud to share.  There was a time when I saw all of my words as golden, everything worth sharing, holding it all up as a key to unlock the mystery of myself.  But that isn't really true.  Some things are deep and insightful clues to my psyche.  Some things are just cute jokes.  I'm finally learning to differentiate the two.