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Day 73. in which Alex exists in a four-dimensional universe.

I have little scraps of paper accumulating of random, half-baked ideas for my blog. Notes without a structure that won't make sense to me in a year if I don't actually write about them now. It's interesting to find these notes because it's a habit I've had for years and although I don't have a large collection of these scraps, I do have about seven or eight journals full of random notes to myself. At times, I have intentionally obfuscated the backdrop of my notes to keep some sense of personal sanctity if they were ever read by someone other than me. Unfortunately, my memory is so cruddy that these elusive notes often confuse me now, too.

Who was the person who kept these journals? What did all of it mean?

I've experienced moments of humility while reading my old journals. I was so very young. I find them embarrassing almost.

I had a great idea last night before settling into bed. Unfortunately, I have already forgotten what it was. But I tried to capture it by scribbling it down on something. Generally, I don't look back at my scribbles, but I find that the act of writing them helps me to retain them.

I jumped out of bed and scrambled to find a pen. No pen. O.K. I found a crayon of Lily's. This would do. Then, I tried to find a sheet of paper to scribble on. (I really need to buy a new paper journal.) But I couldn't find anything. I could have walked downstairs and found a piece of paper. But I was lazy. I had exerted the last bit of energy I had on finding a writing utensil. So I opened up my top drawer of the night stand and found this old journal that I recalled being rather empty. This one had never been flushed out.

Unfortunately, this journal contained more than I had remembered. I opened it up and was faced with some harsh memories from 1998. I found it somewhat sacrosanct to enter a 2008 thought into a 1998 journal so the 2008 thought that had gotten me out of bed in the first place was now forever lost. I was thoroughly overwhelmed by what I was reading from 1998.

Who was this person? Was person 1998 the same person as person 2008? Would person 2018 be the same person as 2008? I like person 2008. I don't particularly like person 1998. Were these people the same?

I don't think I like the thought that person 1998 is even real, let alone as real as person 2008. But it's true.

I have not yet decided how to come to terms with this.