Vol 7, Num 7 :: 2008.04.04 — 2008.04.18
I keep my incomplete self.
I have a box in the basement with folders from my past—essays, poems, short stories from junior high. I also have a file with children’s books I started in college, but never had the confidence to complete. I keep them because they remind me of who I think I am, the person I would like to develop into, but who I might possibly never be. I can’t let go of them, though, because they represent something in me I can’t quite name. I’ve never wanted to embrace the fact that I remain in the “potential” stage, but the folders and files prove to me that I am still firmly quite there. And that drives me crazy.