27 Feb

So here’s a funny thing that happened.

A few days ago, I wrote about an old dream of owning a rock.

A few day later, my mum sent me a photo of her diary from 20 years ago.

In it: my rock!

Turns out it was going to come from the top of Mount Everest. I suppose I wanted to sit on the highest point in the world, but in my garden, without all the issues of over-tourism and altitude sickness.

And I thought how wonderful it was that we’d each done these little bits of writing, 20 years apart, and someone managed to connect them together.

Maybe that’s the power of big dreams.

Two writers, twenty years apart. Connected by a single idea. Isn’t that how humans built civilisations.

And then I thought how beautiful it would be if more people documented their lives. Not in the “look at my selfies” kind of way, but the documentation of the intimate moments. The thoughts and feelings. The stories we’ll forget. The laughs, and the lows. To record for others what life is like viewed through the eyes of different human being. A glimpse of a reality we rarely see.

If I hadn’t started writing, I might never have seen this writing from my mum.

The only reason it was written down in the first place was because she thought she might die a lot sooner than expected. I’m grateful that wasn’t the case.

I wish there were stories like this from my whole childhood. I’ve forgotten so much that I’m a stranger to my past self. I want to look back and see who I was in the eyes of the people who knew me best, Back when I didn’t really know myself, or the world, or what I might become.

It’s a joy to travel back in time to these forgotten memories.

Sincerely,

Mr B.