A Letter to My 40-Year-Old Self

Dear Forty,

Exactly twenty years have passed since the day I was born. For you, twenty years have passed since – well, since today, when you were twenty years old. I have never been able to comprehend what life would be like beyond my teen years, but here I am at twenty and, so far, nothing strikes me as being significantly different. I still need to tidy up my room (to put it delicately), I still write in a half-print-half-cursive hand that few find legible, I still write stories, I still stare into space making passersby stop and ask if I’m alright, I still wander in the backyard with no shoes, occasionally fashioning from the white blooming jasmine a piece of jewelry or some other such accessory, I still listen to Irish music, I still have hermitess tendencies when it comes to going anywhere that’s not home – I’m still me. What a surprise. You’d think such a statement would be obvious, but it actually does come as a bit of a surprise when I reach yet another year and find that that older future person that seemed so mysterious and changed has simply been me all along.

So I feel quite comfortable imagining the years passing by in their lightning-quick way, and all the while remaining me – progressing, hopefully, but never entirely changing the nature of myself; my own self is something that will never change, not even in twenty years.

Sincerely, Twenty.