Dear Me.

Or rather, you're not me, are you? You're who I used to be. My younger self, innocent and carefree and filled with dreams, of things that would never happen and things that could never be. Oh, how I wish for those days -- but they've passed, and I'm older now, perhaps wiser. That's what the adults would say but I think children are the wisest of all.

You had so many things you wished for and I can't help wondering if there's a reason such dreams fade as we get older. If I'd followed them I might have been a ballerina or an iceskater, like you used to wish. But I wouldn't be me, would I, with my writing and my music: I'd be you.

I'm not you anymore. I hope you realise that. It's not a bad thing, not exactly, and I'm not trying to distance myself: sometimes I wish more than anything that I could go back to how I used to be then, but I know I can't -- none of us can. I hope you realise, too, that though childhood has it's benefits there are also things you can't bear, things that can't last.

Don't worry, I'll say no more on the subject. I'll leave you here, and I'll just remember. Remember everything. Because that's what you do as you grow older, isn't it, think on days gone by and look at how you've changed?

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Author guidance for This work

I thought I'd got older in a way that meant I was wiser too. But sometimes I'd give anything to be who I used to be, free from the cares of years.

I guess I just have to live in memories.

updated Jul 21 '10 by delorfinde