I’m moving out of state in a few months. Part of every weekend is now spent trapped in the inevitable, unenviable process of going through closets and boxes and then getting rid of stuff. That takes a while, especially when I fall into a well of memories and spend far too much time at the bottom rather than clawing my way back out.
Back in undergrad, at some cost to my sanity and GPA, I earned a writing minor alongside my physics major. Today I found a piece I wrote for one of those classes. It was a personal, non-fictional essay. Neither essays nor non-fiction (when unrelated to my scientific research) are my thing, yet I was shocked by the naked self I’d presented for the “world” to see. While I don’t fully agree with the symbolic language preferences of the professor of that course, the flowery phrases and comparisons had a striking way of depicting my conflicted feelings regarding a family member thanks to good old family tensions. Reading it again now became all the more poignant because that person passed away about three months ago.
More than the pictures I stumbled across, more than the leftover scraps of notes passed in class or the cards given to me for one holiday or another, this little essay revealed some aspects of what I was like back then, what I thought about, what I focused on.
Maybe someday I’ll post a more polished version of this piece on here and let more than my old professor and classmates read it. But, for now, it’ll serve as a stark reminder to me to keep writing. I’d like to be able to look back on this week, this month a few years from now and once again meet a version of my past self.