we're not really the same as we were, are we? i mean, i'm still me. but i'm not. ask me about my decision making skills at 25 and i will show you a sad girl who thought she knew what she wanted and how to get there. i will bleed out if i try to open up and show you lessons learned.
i'm in the process of performing autopsies on my old journals. not because they hold any secrets. mostly because they don't. as valuable as i thought they were, they don't seem to hold much of anything. i've never seen so many words that don't mean anything all together like that.
a woman walked into my work recently and we recognized each other but we couldn't place it. and then we did. we were in a movie together years ago. back when i fancied myself an actress. she's still working. probably spends her days reading sides and preparing for auditions, the work of chasing work.
we smiled and chit-chatted a bit after we remembered each other and i saw myself talking to her years back at the wardrobe fittings and realized i wouldn't be able to walk in my old shoes if i tried.
i mean, i'm still me but i'm not. you know?
there was a tiny moment, standing in the middle of a coffee roasting facility, talking to this woman's boyfriend about the subtle differences in certain espressos where i thought to myself funny how we both ended up here.
i look at snapshots of my life, images riding on the crest of whitewater while i stand on the bank. fragments of the girls i used to be drift by bobbing up and down but i can seem to catch them. my eye is focused on the shimmering from below. play-doh and senior citizen felines. tiny pianos and mary-janed feet. the way it feels to watch my not quite three year old daughter write her name for the first time, all by herself. i used to be me. and now i'm me all over again. with the dirt and pebbles sifted out. i am what's left over.
the gold in the pan.