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its actually so depressing reading my diary from 2 years ago, i was doing so much cool shit. i'm never gonna have the time/space/energy to read, learn, watch, absorb ever again
i could start ambitious projects and follow through with them, without feeling too tied down because i could just focus all my attention immersing myself. philosophy, art, political theory, i was growing so much, it was such an exciting time. i was basically going through a personal revolution
every day was wide open and filled with potential, that i made sure to follow through on fulfilling that potential
i’m aware that this time wasn’t perfect and i’m not naively wishing for a rolling back of the clocks; same with my recent reminiscence of previous amorous relationships: i am mourning the loss of particular characteristics of the time that i am sorely missing nowadays
i suppose i shouldn’t stress the parallel too much - the latter has more than a twinge of regret, and the permanent eviction of someone i consider(ed) very dear to my heart. the former is grieving the absence of a temporal modality i found extraordinarily generative and rewarding