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.