Old Journals

It's late at night and I'm reading through old documents -- some ranging back to 7 years ago. Some more recent. It's strange reading through them. They fall into either academic or personal, and both have a sense of loss to them. It's the personal ones that are the strangest -- struggling now to remember the moments when I felt these thing. There was one which struck me in particular :

There's a loneliness to walking through the mist, its beautiful but you feel like the only person in the world. Rare cars turning the air white with their headlights break the silence every once in a while. I expected the mist to be thickest near the lake, but as I approached it thinned. Its funny how the times I fear will be the hardest like the last few weeks after our conversation... But they've turned out to be some of the most intimate times we've had, the mist has cleared in some ways.

I sit on the bridge over the little pond, everything is still and clear the trees, streetlights, and clouds reflected in the still water. I'm still, untroubled by anything, thinking of life, you. Walking home I smell the beach by my grandparents where the morning glories creep along the piles of driftwood and the beach retreats every year. My mom once showed me where it used to be when she was young, now 20 foot trees stand a safe distance from the water. I want to go with you, there and everywhere else.

Upon reading this I remembered the moment, and yet looking back at it from the now... from the future which I worried about then -- I don't understand what I was thinking. I was in love. That much I remember, but I don't remember "the conversation" which was evidently quite important. I also don't remember the "mist clearing" -- I apologize for the pain which that cliche may cause. I don't remember sounding as pathetic.
In fact judging from much the stuff I wrote while I was in love, fear was omnipresent. I don't remember it now. I don't remember the feeling of worthlessness that seems omnipresent. I am not worthy of you seems to be the most common sentiment when I wrote about her. I'm glad that I can't relate to that feeling anymore. Now I just remember the joy and excitement -- the pain as well, but that has it's own strange joy to it.

s.