People always talk about time as if it happens slowly, like ten years happens in increments of weeks and days and hours, but it doesn't. You wake up one morning and you realize that ten years have passed, that it's been a decade since you were who you were back then. And, critically, the person back then cannot be considered you in any real meaningful sense of the word--you are not so young, so vibrant, so fucking naive. How could you be?
Remember how you used to find romance in those songs about making a promise to your future self? There was this idea that your future self would find some power in being reminded of a commitment that you had to remain . . . did you even know? Or did you just know that you didn't want to be what you are now?
That's unfair, of course. The worst part isn't knowing that your past self would be disappointed in you today, would play you those old songs and hope that it might stir the part of your soul that was full of whim and wonder. The worst part is not knowing, being so out of touch with who you were before that you don't even know how you would react to seeing yourself now. At least if you were disappointed or angry or bitter you'd provoke a reaction--what if your past self was simply indifferent? And what if it worked? What if you managed to shame yourself into changing into a version of yourself more palatable to that naive fool who thought the world would be softer? Is that not somehow the worst possible outcome?
The world is not the same as it was ten years ago. You do not wear the same shoes or walk the same streets. Just as you cannot imagine the world as it was ten years ago, so back then you could not imagine the world as it is today. And the one thing you can say with certainty, having suddenly awakened to find yourself in this new world, is that ultimately none of this matters. Time makes fools of us all.
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