The other day I stumbled across an old diary of mine. I say stumbled, but really if fell out of my cupboard and hit me on the head while I was looking for another layer to add to my outfit (Michelin Man is so now).
Instead of shoving the bright pink, offending book back into the recesses of my closet, I sat down on the bed and thumbed through the pages. Picking at random, I opened to a page back in February 2014. For some reason, probably because of something I had read on some blog somewhere, I had written myself a letter.
A long, beautiful, letter to my twelve year old self.
Picking up the words from Dear Meischa, my mind softened back to the morning I wrote that letter, sitting in my brothers flat, short clad legs stretched out into a patch of sun shining through the window. I could feel the pen in my hand, my wrist beginning to ache with the speed in which the words, tumbling from my mind, were being inlayed, everlasting, onto the page. I had obviously become so overwhelmed that tears, even almost a year later, stained the page in tiny rivers of disturbed ink. Running my fingers over the dips and valleys of the dried, salty splotches, I felt the same insatiable need to reach back in time and protect her, that little girl I used to be. To gather her to me, to hold her naive, innocent, little cheek against me and look after her.
The words I wrote were beautiful. Twisting together slowly, the echo of this cheeky, loyal, funny, carefree little girl slowly rose out of the pages. She was like a memory hovering on the edges of my own, like a half remembered song.
And I loved her.
As each of the words bloomed from the page, I felt them burrow down, deep, deep, deep into my heart and I realised I had not only written those words for that twelve year old girl, but also for me and the woman that I now am. I was still cheeky and loyal and funny…and impatient and dramatic and a dreamer.
And I…well I’m just as important to protect as her.