Fossils in the closet

Last night, I was re-reading my old journals, as well as written work for various classes. I may be a bit presumptuous, but I dare say that some of what I've written then are actually good. Then I smiled, because even then, I thought what I had written is good. And this was in a time when I still believed in the myth that art is only for art's sake. That was the time when I was experimenting with half-light (known as chiaroscuro) imagery, when poems and short stories were only about mood, when characters were distant, when metaphors were abstract, airy things.

I love reading these relics, and see how I was then. I sometimes feel like an archeologist, brushing dust (sometimes literally) from fossils, never mind if I'm only looking at four-year-old fossils.

And I always get the feeling that I am an outsider looking in, even if I know I wrote these words with my own hand. Maybe it's because I'm aloof to begin with; every time I read my works, it's like discovering a new person, a new insight, a new quote, a new emotion.

Or maybe it's a subconscious effort to not feel the sharp edge of pain embedded in each work.

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