Words of Rediscovery

i started a diary on the day i turned thirty and kept it going without missing an entry through to the day i turned forty. every once in a while i dip into it. it runs to twenty-five large volumes.

i thought i might learn something, visiting my younger self, and i did. the past, in my memory, is indistinct, gauzy, without much affect if i don’t dwell on it. i learned, reading my words from those years, that remembrance is painful.

the good times, the bad times, just the times, are lost, irretrievable. proust spent his life attempting to recapture his past. i can’t do that. my spirit can’t sustain the wounds i experience, reading and remembering rather than simply remembering. the regret wells up, not for anything i did, but for being here, now, not there.

i’ll pass the books along to the kids, or their kids, but i haven’t been able to let go of them yet.

for Putting My Feet in the Dirt

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