It’s late on a work night and I suddenly have the urge to go digging through boxes in search of my old, old journals. I know I would undoubtedly spend more time wincing over them than not (as I will one day over my current journal), but I still want to find them and maybe find an old – yet far younger – version of myself pressed between two dates and two pages of line paper.
I wonder if my younger self would like the me of today. I have a feeling she wouldn’t approve of me entirely. I find more and more shades of grey these days. It’s so much more of a challenge than when it used to be black and white and I know when babies arrive one day, it will be even more confusing, grey and I only hope I don’t flounder. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever feel ‘grown up’ and capable.
Is this something all adults realize one day, that they are just figuring things out as they go along and little do the children around them realize it? Are we all faking it to some extent? Pretending we’ve got it all together when we are freaked out just a little inside that we’re not going to pull it off in the end?