Sometimes, it's just too easy to spend a whole weekend trying to get in touch with a person we once were.
Watching anime at a neighbour's house. Lazing around on a Saturday enjoying the feeling of peace and nothing. Spending an evening in the computer room with the brother and his best friend, listenign to computer gamer lingo and remembering evening spent as a Night Elf Druid. Dancing naked in the rain. Writing letters. Trying to remember the feeling of creativity and words buzzing from sensitive scalp down the channel to overactive fingers, and admiring the rubbish art and words that flow out as a result. Hoping to create half the horse-dung-quality creations of years past, just to remember the feeling of consistently creating and taking joy in that without labels or expectations. Throwing everything onto the bed in the first stage of 'cleaning' and leaving the last of it until past bedtime.
The searching, active searching, of finding and re-reading old high school teacher recommendation letters and gazing at old pictures as an attempt to morph back into the person captured there.
Then there's a moment where the searching goes away and it's just unintentional stripping back to that place, no planning, no conscious attempt.
Like an old friend from high school IMing for late-night advice on an LGBTQ problem in her life, how to deal and come out. That feeling of knowing the old Gay Straight Alliance President presence will never really go away because we're trees and no matter how many layers of heartwood we grow, we can always get in touch with the rings of old selves. So I give up the elusive concept of an 8-hour night to help out a friend and finish tidying up my life...room. And suddenly I'm back to the person I've always been, and never stopped being, but stopped recognising.
Science didn't eat my creativity, even if it was masked for a while. I can still write a letter or a novel. I can still draw without judging every line and smudge. I can disconnect the old brain censor when I give it a real boot.
I've spent all weekend looking for that old 15, 16, 17, 18-year old self...and here she was all along, staring at me with a quirky grin, wondering when I would realised that the moment I stopped searching I'd find we're all right here. Evolution doesn't mean erasing: it means personal progress and appreciation of growth, as well as the foundations we started from.
...I'm going to go finish cleaning my room and zonk the frak out then, I suppose. Why yes, laughter, I do sound just like the high schooler I used to be. I needed to get in touch with Inner Kiwi this weekend, recharge...but now I need to get back in touch with my bed, and it's covered in memorabilia of my life.