A very wise friend expressed his shock, the other day, at reading through his old diaries. So much of what he used to think no longer seems relevant to him.
I guess that means he has travelled far, and has become a different being.
I've often thought about what I used to write. I have one diary in particular, kept during a particularly poignant year in my life. It's blue binding is scattered with beautiful purple sequins, and its pages are frayed at the edges from my near-constant thumbing them late at night as I thought and thought and wrote and wrote.
I carried it with me everywhere, and wrote in it compulsively. Even if in the middle of a circle of friends having coffee, I would suddenly pull it out and mid-conversation, write something down.
When its pages were full, I put my pencil down, and haven't written on paper like that again, or looked at anything I wrote.
But I carry it with me wherever I go. One day, I'll need to open it again, and there'll be a message in it for me. Until then, it lives with my other diaries - the only one of about a dozen notebooks that is full from page one to page-last, full of exactly what I was burning to write down - and not one word more.
I remember some of what I wrote, though most of the details were just emptied into the pages, and I can't remember them.
Some of what I thought then, I still think now.
Does that mean I haven't moved?
Or that I always knew, and that I need to move from knowing, to being?