The other day, I found an old thumbdrive which was left neglected in my stationery basket after dropbox and google drive took over my professional life.
I have been using it for about a month since, and decided today, of all days, to click on an old folder labelled with my name. It turned up another folder “atheleventhour”, named after my now-defunct blog. Went down the list of mostly half-completed, mostly unpublished scribbles that brimmed over with so much youth that I laughed and cringed over my words.
On ways to introduce myself, these are versions I wrote that didn’t make the cut:
“Really likes the number eleven and gets most motivated at the eleventh hour. Writes, for love of the language… and for love of the past.”
“A sociology graduate who counts buying novels and notebooks among her interests. Reads, writes, plays squash, sings, and will spend the last dollar on travel.”
The young version of me also thinks and whines too much about doing things, without actually doing things:
“That aside, I worry too much that I may cease to write. The anxiety results from a lack of academic diligence. Then again, I don’t think I can stop writing completely. “
… and is sometimes insecure, sometimes pretentious:
“23 years and 361 days, with weight issues.”
“Contrary to her lackluster grades in school, she is deeply inspired and intrigued by sociological thoughts. The construction of social reality titillates her senses, in the same way cultures and their people fascinate her.” — what?
It is no wonder these never saw the light of day until now. Almost a decade on, my hobbies and interests haven’t varied much. Very much still fascinated by cultures and the human condition, very much into travelling and writing, favourite number’s still 11, and so on.
But so much has changed too. That youth, like a struggle to establish myself, is all but gone, and my words have become plainer and more personal with the years, as though time has lifted the veil on me and here I am, more comfortable than ever in my own skin.