Have you ever meandered through reveries of when you were younger especially through letters and notes? Where the volumes of your mind that you expressed in deep intimate conversations with a dear friend caught you by surprise? You just stare in awe at how gluttonous your mind was for the richness of meaning in the words you would exchange? Words that were diverse at so many levels; pensive and joyous, demure and profane, literal and metaphorical, rebellious and contained, heart-felt and spontaneous. I would be doing injustice to the real essence of the feeling if I am to limit it’s parameters to the aforementioned characteristics. But whatever word salad that was made, understated and of-the-moment it might be then, surely is the most prolific set of compilation that the younger you concocted. I suppose that’s as accurate as I can get to describing that awestruck moment.
I just faced that surreal rush after reviewing some 5000+ messages in a thread with an old friend. She is someone wise for her age and I, albeit love her far more now than I did then, lost that intellectual intimacy with her in the midst of the monotonous construct of routine life. The textual memorabilia pumped boluses of endorphins and pride in my veins at how beautiful our minds worked at questioning and rationalizing the “rebellion” to the questionably “accepted” norms. The myriad of ideas that we would weave together into a metaphorical fabric: one that’s not green but chartreuse, not apples but jonagold, not literature but robinsonade, not messages but word salad. I never realized how invariably genius an erratic young mind is. It induced that pat-on-back-feeling towards our 2 year younger selves for being so passionate in our conversations and re-instilled my buried respect for her genius.
But with every feeling of excitement, some negativity has to coexist whenever I decide to revisit. I shamed my present self for being so heedless over what ran my mind the whole day. The perceptions that home inside my head most of the time now, are invariably bound to emanate flat lines on the EEG if such technology (God forbid) were to develop. The fact, that I let the technological media control and eventually impede the impulses that would propagate the recesses of my mind shamed me into oblivion over who I really am. If you’re guilty of such vile superficiality as well, then ask yourself, why did we let the leash loose? Why did we conform to the trending ideas of small talk? And most importantly, why does it seem so exhausting to muse at the level, if not impossible.
I miss this. Time to hypertrophy the atrophied intellect.