A Letter to the Present

Dear 25-year-old self,

It’s the year 2023. I write to you from the future. I guess you’ve figured that out.

I’m you at 35 years old. Hey, you’re still alive. I don’t know why that’s always your first question—you sometimes wonder if you’re a bit of a hypochondriac, but then you wonder if labeling yourself as a hypochondriac makes you not one (like how self-identifying as crazy makes one sane enough to not be crazy) or if diagnosing yourself as a hypochondriac is just one of the deliciously “meta” coincidences of life.

Anyway, hi, you’re alive and well.

What does being a middle-aged person feel like?

A Message from the Present

Dear 15-year-old self,

It's the year 2013. I write to you from the future.  I know that in the year 2003, you're contemplating many morbid yet genuinely curious thoughts of life, death, mortality, and purpose, so I may as well get this bit out of the way: you are still living, breathing... and still writing vain self-reflective blog posts, apparently. 

Allow me to introduce myself. I'm you, ten years from now. You survived high school, graduated university, and you have a job. Spoiler alert: you're a teacher. Glad to have gotten all that out of the way. Now, I know that my revealing all of that bears little to no weight on you right now because until every single one those things comes to fruition in the next 10 years, you'll continue to writhe and worry about each thing and then turn around and say that it's because you fussed and fretted about every little detail that you were able to survive, graduate, and what have you. There's nothing I can do about that.

Moving on, then.