So here I am and that girl who was, still is, me - gazing at the sky right now. It's almost freaky but I'm used to that and there's kind of a frisson. Like re-meeting someone you haven't seen for decades, only to find it was yourself all along. And you were never parted. I feel the shine of dreams and hopes back then. Now. Because they are still here. Still behind my eyes reaching for the rolling clouds. I don't know who's trying to catch what but it's all so close to being tangible, if I don't hold on too hard.
I don't really have anything to say to young-me. She's been through it, knows what I know now – indeed she knew it first. We're all here. Me at 12, 17, 21, 29, and so on … all of us-me. And actually, it's beautiful. We're beautiful. Ok I'll get a shock if I see myself in the mirror later. Maybe I'll even feel a little sad that I gave this erstwhile pretty piece of flesh to the most dastardly of causes. But that's not really fair. We're our own causes. And effects. Others screw things up just to keep it interesting, eh?
