15 years old, more or less. Going out with the same corduroy trousers and huge scarves, like the ones I used ten years ago, like the ones other wore ten years before that. Reading Efraim medina Meyes on the train, when I used to read Martin Millar, anyway, anything goes as long as it has some rock in it. With kohl around your eyes, and writings all over your old sagged backpack. With your head full of thoughts, deep ones too for your age, and you know that, full with expectations and ideals.
Know that you’ll be hurt from then to now, but know also that you’ll become stronger and wiser each time. Know that maybe the toughest period still has to come, but it ends eventually, and you step out of it with your head up high, I know you don’t believe me right now, but you’ll also be happy, satisfied, smiling.
Know that underneath the tucked trousers and the office purse, that I wear ’cause I have to and that you look at with scorn, there still is the will to crack the world open to see what’s inside it and then to put it back together as you please.
And even though I can tell you “sheesh girl, you did it!!!” I can also tell you no, you won’t find answers to all those contradictions and oddities you’ve just begun to collect… but you learn to pour something yours in it, give it your print and go on like that. I can tell you that it’s a good answer, when people ask you “how do you see yourself in ten years?”, to answer “twentyfive years old”, because now it seems an endless time, but they fly away and everything turns upside down and inside out, like a sock. And I can grant you that inside you’ll feel still the same, yet a bit changed, and that these words will make sense, clearly.
Well, I’m on the edge of obvious and tacky, and you already have a hard time giving me trust, because it’s widely known that being somewhat cynical works as a shield, but it also damages a little on the inside. Nothing dreadful, don’t worry.
So here it is, I thought I would write to my old 15yo self, but then I looked around and saw lots of teens like I was, and I wanted so much someone who could tell me “you’re doing fine, don’t worry, keep up with it, it’s not easy, but it worths it”. Got it? 😉
And now dear you,
or better, me, in ten years, therefore 35. Maybe now I do have some idea on how I see me in ten years, but I don’t have as much to say as in the previous letter. If I were to list everything I hope for it would turn out like a wishlist to Santa. A pretty cheesy one. Anyway I’m committing to try my bes, and now let me jump into a space-time paradox: I hope you’re happy with what I’ve done, how I made things turn out for you, I mean to follow my passions and expectations, ’till now it worked out pretty well. As of now I ask but true independence and the ability to not turn grey. But knowing where we come from… it’s very unlikely 😉