Brooke Forbes

I’m moving old files across my desktop –

Pixelated, info-laden, time capsules; catapulting me back to a time when writing was effortless fun.

To a time before textbooks heavy with the law.

To a time when dreams soared across blank screens as quickly as my night-fever-inspired fingers could type.

What secrets can I find, in these long-forgotten files?

Fresh heart breaks, dangerous encounters, nuanced escapes.

Can I free myself from words written a decade ago?

But the contents are not naïve. They are not the writings of a frivolous 19-year-old, desperate for any form of suburban high.

The warnings, the insight, the humanity – it’s like a letter to my future self.

And I’m wondering, have I somehow transgressed? Do these time capsules keep a version of me that is purer, kinder, wiser, than the older self?

And, what of the now? What can I capture for the future? Shedding layers through early-morning writing sessions in town cafes.

The words I forgot to write previously haunt me, like fragments within a poem that’s not making sense.  Pregnant with possibility, these forgotten words, on what could have been.

But today, I can write a little and for now, I am forever thankful for the save button.