Have I grown out of certain feelings of certain ages—and into new ones? Feeling only the old ones as ghosts hiding in the attic, rustling along the walls of my memory? Like a pull from the past, asking me: ‘Will you ever reach us again?’
To have become a different kind of sentimental. And a different kind of cynic. Reacting differently to things I once scorned. Or cherished.
Feelings follow ages, I suppose. I both miss the old ones and feel relief that they are no more. So strange to become an adult; to become this amalgamation of different times and sensations belonging to the same person.
I wonder which of those feelings I should hold on to and which ones I should let go or bar out entirely? To not lose a sense of myself. But is myself not all of them? Or is it dangerous to keep them all locked in?