The Forgotten

Bumped onto some of my old journals from college and was very surprised. Didn't recognise the person who had written those. The words, the language, and most surprisingly the thoughts were all alien. Thus started the hunt to unearth more recent journals to see whether it's just the passage of time that's making them alienated or something else is going on here. But didn't recognise any of the new stuff as well. Nothing has any context anymore...they could very well be someone else's journals. I guess it comes from being impulsive. Was confusing to trace a trajectory. Just gave up after a point.

Damn strange feeling...being a stranger to myself.

“If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.”

                                                                                 —ERNEST HEMINGWAY