Lost are the years of stories I captured in my turbulent youth. Two diaries buried in a landfill somewhere after a down-the-street move. Lost is the heartache, teenage angst and angry words spewed out on pages and pages of recycled line paper. Forgotten is all the pain and agony of long-distance loves ripping themselves apart in the middle of the night. Departed is the fear and anger of parents languishing about their spoiled lives. Gone are the days of a fragile, sequestered identity with unexpressed maturity. It was therapy and a voice for the soul. My pen was my best friend when no one would listen and a whipping post when I needed it most.
It’s just as well. With the new blanket and shelter time has created in the wake of all the heartache, there are plenty of stories yet to be written and more waves to ride upon. Once writing, it’s not uncommon to experience a déjà vu or two. Perhaps a few buried treasures will haunt my pen and paper with memories thought to be abandoned. Like a trigger-happy photographer, I capture them all with loud clicking keystrokes.