Do you ever marvel at old drafts? Some of those lines are so beautiful, I’m a bit envious of the person I used to be, who was less knowledgable, true, but who had more passion and could write with such explosive zeal.
But the past is always seen through rose-colored lenses. I actually suffered a lot back then. The smallest things set me off into an emotional downward spiral and I’d often fall asleep in the fetal position begging the powers that be to keep me from losing my mind. However, I felt ennobled by my mental illness because many of my favorite authors suffered from severe depression. More than half of my top authors committed suicide. I thought it was a rite of passage for being a good writer.
The truth was, those beautiful lines had been glimpses of light at the end of the tunnel for me. I spent the supposedly “best years” of my youth in utter despair. I cried a lot, for no apparent reason. I might publish that writing one day. I’m not sure if it has any value to outside eyes, but I’m not being hyperbolic when I say writing saved me. After all, I write to create space, and without those lines, my depression would’ve completely suffocated me.
So I guess I’m not envious of who I used to be—that’s not the right word. Actually, I’m proud. Good job past me!