I was looking through some of the old posts, deleting ones I didn’t like and editing others, as per usual, and spotted something worth noting.
Two or three years ago, I had hope and optimism. I was suffering from a bad case of anxiety disorder, but I had dreams, you know. I had hope that one day life would work out just fine. I see those years as the worst of my life up to date, but there was also hope. Now, I don’t suffer from a bad case of anxiety disorder, but I don’t have hope. What lesson can we learn from this?
It’s one bad choice over the other now.
More thoughts on past and present selves: I also noticed that the quest for greater authenticity has been a success so far. I’m quite a bit blunter than I used to be (and I was blunt to begin with), which may be good or bad, depends on who I talk to and how well they can handle bluntness.
And this too: I don’t feel ashamed to say I didn’t like some great classics or that I adored some works which aren’t considered literature. I’m very much freer and unashamed. The love of a thing continues to be important. So, with all my inconsistencies and inability to carry things through, this is not a bad outcome. This is some good development.