As I waited for my usual train today, I watched a teenage girl scribble furiously into her journal. She filled page after page with small, loopy writing, occasionally turning back to reference some previous recollection, whereupon I glimpsed sketches and diagrams closely guarded by blocks of paragraph.
I miss that girl. I was that girl, once upon a time. My entire teenage life is recorded somewhere, from the grand gestures of puppy love through to the detection of minor nuances I thought may have been significant in the long term that were really just small coincidences and noted characteristics of random folk.
What it must be to be young again and experience so many emotions for the first time! Can we ever get that back? Can we ever really emmulate our young self in a truer version given the benefit of hindsight. Isn’t the very innocence of our entire being back then impossible to replicate after years of fine tuned cynicism?
Overwhelming. I remember, then, it was overwhelming. Everything was too much, too sharp and so finely focused. I was the centre of my universe and I could not imagine a world in which I was not the key to all things. And in trying to sort though such a labyrinth of heightened perception, I wrote it all down. Like any good scientist I recorded each day with precision, yet I forgot to add myself into the equation: leaving me with only the subjective understanding of a girl I hardly recognise anymore.
I wonder what the girl from the train station will become, one day, when she turns back to her old journal, looking for answers where only questions remain.