What if it was all this time good enough?

The things I wrote, the stuff I did, the things I said, the stories I told? What if it was no longer imperfect, but perfectly incomplete? What if it was good, as it is, as it was, as it is supposed to be?

Last night, I found some of my old teenage writing. In notebooks, handwritten, line after line.

It took me no time to be where I was before.

What happened?

When did I interrupt the flow with my mind, mood and memories? When did writing become an effort, a duty, a necessary thing?

I’m not sure when it changed, but I must have grown up. Out of my mind, into my job, my daily life existence.

I now make a conscious effort to be where I was before. A young girl, with a notebook, writing down her world.

There’s no changes, no correcting, no second guessing, no self doubt: just me, with a pencil, recreating what once was.

And so it is.