Writing To My High School Self

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Writing: High School Me

I had this plain white, hardcover notebook in high school that I guarded religiously. It wasn’t a diary, but it was maybe more intimate than that. It contained my writings, something I’m very vulnerable about and possessive of. I remember this sky-blue ink I used and how there was so much to write about. I miss the high school me.

That me had the richest inner life, she was the most creative, and she was good at what she did. I feel like I’m running on what’s left of her in my today’s writing.

The thing is, her inner world wasn’t a separate sphere from the outside reality. She just had this talent to see the ordinary around her and talk about it like it was a high fantasy. The ideas were pouring in. It was almost like a filter over her eyes that would paint everything in magic.

She was an observer, and after a while, it became easy to see the strings in the fabric we don’t normally take notice of. It was the same with people, places, weather, moods, everything.

Estrangement

This older me internalized everything. I went from observing the world to turning completely to myself, the outside becoming a blur. It felt like leaving Narnia for the last time. I don’t even know if I can say “I” in the context of my high school self and me now. These two don’t know each other.

It used to be so easy to sit on the bench by the sea and have a story unfold before my eyes. I would fight with the wind on the days if felt especially good to write – right before the storm, trying to keep the paper still and my hair at bay before the idea’s gone. Time ran differently in those moments.

God, I used to look out the window and soak up the world, and now I zone out and get to where I am going without even realizing it.

I spend too much time on my phone or my laptop. Even when I am writing, it’s not on paper. I lost that blue-ink notebook. I even lost some stuff I had stored on my old computer because it died, and I didn’t make any copies. It’s a shame. I want to see one more time what I used to write about.

My high school self still had potential then. She wrote for writing.

Writing Now & Then

What writing meant to me back then wasn’t just my love for it. It was also a chance – bear with me here – to find my worth. To amaze, to make people proud. I couldn’t just do it anymore. It had to be good.

Sometimes I was only seen in the context of my writing. That was my spotlight, and those crumbs of attention were my diet. I’m part of a conversation. I’m not invisible.

And then there were expectations – on whose part, I couldn’t tell you – to make it big young – a child prodigy. It had to be good. That was the second time the time ran differently. It was escaping me. I was getting older, accomplishing nothing. I wasn’t special.

Maybe that’s why I lost it.

I began doubting myself, staring too much in the mirror, judging everything about me, every version of myself. I started writing for reading and then came censoring, polishing, and trying too hard. I walk around with a fantom mirror in my right corner, at all times needing to know how people see me, correcting myself because one mistake can cost me all the value I hold in this world.

Epilogue

I know that whoever does any art will be their own worst critic. It’s normal to want to perfect it. It’s just that if you do it too much, it could lose its natural shine. I compare myself too much – and preach the contrary – and all I see are missing pieces and mistakes.

I’m not doing well with my nuclear language, but I’ve just started thinking about my high school self recently, and I miss that mind. I have no desire to connect with my inner child, but my inner teen? Perchance.