I miss being a kid and not knowing better
Ah, nostalgia. This blog feels like a cemetery, inhabited by the ghosts of all the past versions of me. It feels so bizarre to read through my old posts, to see my old self still alive and thriving, curled around the words like smoke. The 15-year-old who felt misunderstood, the 16-year-old writing her novels and thinking about the future for the first time, the 17-year-old discovering herself and finally feeling confident in who she is, the 18-year-old facing adulthood and university in the middle of a global pandemic – all those versions of myself live on in this blog. None of those aspects are who I am anymore, and therefore I find it hard to decide what to do with this old site. I'm usually tempted to just take it down, to save my posts onto my hard drive for posterity and scrub its existence off the internet. But something always stops me – sentimentalism, I suppose. This blog was such a huge part of my life for so long, and I'm just not ready to let it go. I miss it. I mis...