i've been rummaging through old papers. again. perhaps as an act of the willfull unpacking process. i always believed that i performed this ritualistic revisiting only to satisfy periodic fits of nostalgia. i viewed the literary works of my teenage years as nostalgic mementos. visual and audible vignettes of my past that transported me through time much the same way that photographs and songs often do.
most of us are familiar with the pangs of adolescent, romantic angst and heartache. few among us escape unscathed. even so, what seemed the cause of my pain didn't warrant the asperity that unfolds on the pages of my tattered notebooks.
the naivete of my youth is belatedly eroding, yielding reluctantly to adulthood... and consequently, to the most disturbing revelations. while adolescent romantic rejection was on the surface, prompting me to write, there was a much stronger, inexplicable pain flowing beneath. on the outside, it seemed i longed for unrequited love of a boy. yet on the inside, it was another love i was longing for: the love of my parents. and perhaps more significantly, the love of a father.
abruptly, without warning, it all made sense.
i was, naturally, writing when stumbling upon this epiphany, my right hand and subconcious in seeming solidarity, moving together as if i am a separate entity standing by, waiting to read what will come next. i had to pause and catch my breath and breathed out, "o.ho.ly. crap.".
words on a sheet of paper had just formed, one by one, onto a line, piecing together an ambiguous puzzle.
this would change everything, forever morphing my mementos. and my perspective. each page is its own soliloquy. it was no longer lovesick poetry, but heartbroken expulsion: it was my pouring myself out onto blank pages without any motivation other than to move what was inside of me outside of me. the rejection of a boy occasionally [or frequently] pricked my heart, or scratched the surface and inevitably, it would overflow, bleeding each word onto the pages. invariably, the context angst and despair and pain and anger. over and over.
every experience of rejection evoked emotion in me that left me absolutely blindsided with pain so intense I could hardly breathe. this unidentifiable anguish, i assumed, was what everyone felt in the throes of longing and love. and so i wrote, frequently, fervently, expressing the depth of my pain as if it were a reflection of forsaken teenage romance.
i can no longer turn to these volumes of my youth for nostalgic thrills. they are certainly no longer an effective refuge from adulthood. i can no longer find humor in [what i formerly perceived to be] superfluous puerilities. i read them now with a parodixcal combination of empathy and envy for that teenage girl who was silently and inadvertently drudging her way through something much deeper than she knew.
i read them in this new light of understanding. (the light of adulthood)... a light that reveals every esoteric allusion that has, for twenty years, lied hidden in the darkness beneath the ink of delicately scripted words. hidden fragments of a fractured childhood and a fractured heart. i collect them, shards and slivers, and begin to piece them together. some pieces are forever lost in time. others, unusable. so i salvage what i can and perhpas for the first time, i let go of the idea of restoration and unattainable perfection and lay them out as an intricately patterned mosaic. one that may, eventually, be even more lovely than it ever would have been unblemished and unbroken.