These books, a.k.a. my old diaries, are for the most part horrendous and cringe-inducing and the utmost pinnacle of naiveté. But I have faithfully recorded my journey so far - which is lucky, as I seem to have forgotten most of it already ( and I'm not even that old ) - and when I pick up one of these diaries and read it, I am sometimes struck speechless.
Did I actually, really, find a shop in Paris that sold live peacocks and skunks? Or see all the bicycles from the Tour de France pass by on a lorry? How did I forget these things?
And there is the case of the mysterious village ... I once lived in England for a while. I had ended up living in a particular village, tiny and largely unknown, completely by coincidence and had no recollection of ever having heard of its existence beforehand. Much later, I found that I had mentioned that village in my diaries. Not only once, but twice. Years before I went there. Creepy, yes?
I also seem to have a talent for writing very clearly about things to which I'm completely oblivious. Like the year I was frequently hanging out with an ex-boyfriend and feeling melancholic because I still had a thing for him but kept it to myself because he was not interested. That this was the factual state of affairs, I had no doubt at the time. Yet, in my old diary, where I wrote "he doesn't love me" and wrote about the way he looked at me and talked to me ... now I read the truth more clearly than that faded ink. The truth that he was desperately in love with me. Sad, yes?
No, I'm no writer of magic after all. But I see this as proof that there is more to life than just coincidence and randomness. A beautiful symmetry, the Creator's plan. And yes, it was in that plan that I not end up with that boy - this it also clear to me now.
However, if I read this in five or ten years, a completely different truth may be screaming at me from behind these words.
No comments:
Post a Comment