Dear Me

Thanks Kael for the idea. I thought it seemed cool.Your blog is really influential, did you know that?

I don't think you'll have much of an idea what I'm talking about, some of the time. And I'll probably tell you a ton of stuff about me I don't want you to know. That'll probably be why some bits will be completely vague and incomprehensible. I'm sorry for writing vague and incomprehensible stuff.


"But that's okay."

I'm going to go and make a facebook event to remind myself to read this later. Should probably go finish my diary entry before I start this, too.

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Hi.

It's been a while, hasn't it? I'm listening to behind these hazel eyes while I'm writing this. Fitting, isn't it? That I'm writing a letter for the future while listening to music from far into my past. It's a nice song.


So you're 20 now. At least you should be. It sounds so old to me. I'm still 16 now. Turned 16 less than a month ago, as you might have realised. I guess I could talk about why I wanted you to read this at exactly 20. But I don't think you'd be interested in that.


Why I'm calling you "you" is important, though. I'm not sure why I'm doing it, but I think it's probably something to do with thinking I'll become a really different person when I/you read this. Or maybe it was just because I had an image of an older person travelling back in time to talk to a younger person. But this conversation is going to be pretty one-sided. I guess you could write a letter back to me, but

but I'd never read it.

I wonder if you don't like my writing style. I didn't like the writing style of anything I'd written before. Or maybe my writing style won't change much in the four years between me writing this and you reading it. Actually, I just don't like any of the things my past self has done. You'll probably think I'm a retard, because I've always thought that the me four years ago was a retard regardless of how old I was.


I'm not sure what to talk about. Isn't it funny writing something to yourself? I guess I'll talk about me first. Then I'll talk about you.

So, me. Where should I start? I guess I'll start with the now. Why am I writing this letter? Because I thought it was a cool idea? Well, I guess writing about you might be cool. But if I'm honest to myself the main reason I'm writing this is because writing makes me feel better.

You know why I need to feel better. I don't think you can forget something like this, even after four years. When something touches your heart in such a way, you'll remember. Or maybe you've moved on. Maybe you've moved on many times already that for you it doesn't matter anymore. But for me it does. Me, I'm still looking for my heart. I'm wondering where your heart is now. Will you still stare into the distance, haunted by your memories of a visage long forgotten, by memories of ridiculous dreams and daydreams, of sitting down in maths and feeling a presence like an insurmountable wave from your right side even while doing that extension question 19 (c)?

I feel pretty sad about it. And you know what? I think today's been a pretty bad day. Yesterday's been a pretty bad day. I wonder why I'd never thought of them as bad days before. I guess because of the sheer volume of  good that radiates from the very walls of the school.

Oh, and the school. I wonder whether you'll still think that going to this school was the best decision you ever did. Or maybe it's too far back, and you don't even care because it doesn't seem to affect you as much. Sometimes I have my doubts. But the people. The people are the best people that you could ask for. I probably don't even deserve to ask for people this nice around me.

If only seeking nice people is all my heart wanted to follow.

I'm playing multitask 2 now. Do you still remember that game? Maybe you're still playing it, maybe you've gotten a new computer and lost your highscores. For reference, you're trying to beat 136-102-92. Or maybe there's a multitask 3, and it's even more ridiculously hard.

I feel like I'm talking to a completely different person now. Probably a university student of 3 years now. I've always thought of uni students as these giant grownup people.

I find growing up a bit scary. I'm only 16 now, and it feels like I'm not even close to the realm of adulthood. But whether I understand what being an adult is or not, I'm starting to understand their intentions and starting to analyse their actions and reactions. A good thing, I suppose. But what's almost definitely right is that you'll be wiser than me. Wiser, and more experienced.

Do you still play chess much? I don't see any reason for you to now. But I spend a ridiculous amount of time playing chess now. Strategies, counterstrategies, tactics. And yet nothing more than two kings, fourteen pieces, and sixteen pawns. To me, sometimes chess is so tiresome. Successes, defeats, and more defeats. And yet a computer engine easily defeats any human. There is a hard limit to my ability, for I can never surpass a perfectly thinking CPU. Disenchanting, I guess.But there's still practice. Practice, practice, and more practice. And maybe improvement.

It's a bit weird, I guess, writing to the future. Suddenly, everything that I've wondered will be something of the past, something you might have long forgotten.


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Hello. It's the next day. I think this day has been pretty good. Well, better than yesterday. I just beat my multitask 2 score. 150 now. It shouldn't be too hard to beat for you, I only lost because I lost concentration for an instant. But you probably aren't interested in that, either.


But the only reason it's good is that people told me that my marks (which I thought were pretty average) were good. And I guess I felt that I could do the HSC without failing it too badly. And my parents won't be too sad at my report, which also helps.


Is the HSC far behind you now? For me, now, as you might expect it's the only thing there is. Maybe for you it's a forgotten memory, long past. Maybe you failed your HSC, because I'm going to fail my HSC. Maybe you got an average ATAR. Or maybe you got a good ATAR. Maybe you got a scholarship to university. Probably not. If you failed the HSC I hope the terrible ATAR you inevitably got doesn't linger in your mind too much. Don't regret the past too much. But I suppose I'm in no place to be giving advice to myself.


And of course my thoughts turn back to my heart, because it seems to overflow into my writing whenever I write about stuff. Or maybe not. I guess it's just my diary. So if I have my diary for my heart to overflow into, why should I post anything to do with it on my blog? It's not as if I have before. It's not as if anyone reading this would want to know. At the moment it's a dull splatter of pale blue paint on a black canvas. Surrounded by the darkness and despair of my rational thinking. Is hope better lit, or thrown away?


But sometimes I can find solace in friends, whether I know it or not. Or when I'm playing multitask. When I'm concentrating really hard. Sometimes everything fades away for awhile. And maybe that's why I seek friendship. Maybe that's why I play multitask. Maybe not.


Isn't it strange how something so insignificant to your life can be the most important thing you can think of at any given time?



I can't help wondering if you remember my heart. Filled with memories, but unlike the last time not filled with awkward, experiences and my heart will go on along a dark road after soccer training. Not filled with empty text messages and crazy im conversations. Not filled with ridiculous feelings and a close friendship. Instead filled with memories of the busbay at a new, bright school. Memories of checking for each number on the bus, wondering if the next one will be a number I fervently hope is not there. One more distant memory, of watching a table tennis ball hit the net from both sides, and having fun. A memory of changing to the opposite seat in maths. A memory of a single conversation that left me a light joy for the rest of the day. A darkness that followed the joy, battling against circumstance and the inevitable with every step I took. One more memory, one deeper now, of my name being pronounced with a weird enunciation, of internally smiling at it while picking up dug-up weeds from the concrete path. One more recent memory, less significant, of talking to someone from the opposite direction and using my peripheral vision to examine the people while passing while holding the conversation and nodding intently. Multitasking. The clearest set of memories, memories of imagining holding my right hand up with that iconic greeting: "Hello." And finally, a mixture of analysis and dark, hopeless hours at a white desk behind rows upon rows of whiter boxes, simultaneously dreaming up impossible scenarios and ridiculing myself, feeling a grim atmosphere radiate from myself like a dark raincloud.



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I guess that's enough about me. There really isn't much to the person that's me, and there probably won't be that much to you either. Because my OCD tells me to make a logical structure of this blog post, I guess I'll talk about our differences, I'll throw in a bit about you, and then I'll finish this post because I need to do a lot of maths.


Appearance. I never paid too much attention to how I looked. Probably a bad thing. But I'd always seemed to notice that my friends' appearances fade into who they are after awhile. Not just my friends, even people that I'd seen around a lot. Your appearance suddenly becomes nothing but a symbol for your identity, for you are. I guess that sounds a bit weird. Do you still believe identity transcends both appearance and personality?


Maybe when you look back you'll see someone who's a younger, less experienced, and brimming with the ignorance of youth. Have you lost your dreams yet? Do you see the barrier of age hanging above you, showing you the things that you'll be unable to do? Do you  laugh at the dreams of youth? Probably not. Because you're still young. You're still only 20. But what will you say when you're 25? When you're 30? Even when you're 40, well past your prime?


Do you remember a notebook, a notebook with dreams and aspirations littering the lines between the lines of ink? Don't forget that notebook. Don't forget me.


Personality. Do you remember when you were me, when you had become intoxicated with the brightness of freedom? The people around you were no longer separate from you, they were no longer your oppressors. You could walk around wishing goodwill on every person that you passed, because you know that they wouldn't be disinclined from wishing a similar goodwill to you as you walk past. You see people doing good things for other people. And you smile.


I've become a lot brighter and more spontaneous since coming to this school. A stretch from the reserved, displaced individual that looked to the future and saw nothing but academic results. Saw nothing but the general rank given to him at the end of each semester, and the despair of doing badly in school. Someone who never understood the value of the one true friend to him, who didn't like to trust people.



I understand friends now. If you're reading this, you'd be a lot happier at this school. You don't know it, though. And you never will.


And you? Maybe you've become even more open than you were. Do you still write in this blog? Are you friendly? Do you still worry endlessly about the things you could be doing wrong?


And identity? You're me.


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There isn't much to say about you. I guess I only have questions for you to ask. Questions I'll never see the answers to. Questions you might find pointless to answer. Pointless to respond to someone long gone.


When I think of you, all I can think of is university, of getting a job, of being an adult. But I know that for you there'll be so much more to your life. But I just can't imagine what at the moment. You're just a blank, an unwritten page.



I guess that's all I have to say about you.



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All of this "you" and "me" stuff sounds right to me. Because you're a complete stranger to me, right now. But when you read this you'll know me ridiculously well. The writing will sound weird to you, I guess. But you should be able to feel how I feel now.


I don't know you, but you know me. Isn't that funny?


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That's the end. I hope that it was mildly interesting to you.