My youth is a mystery.
I interact with a lot
of millennials and younger people on social media, and I’m fascinated by how they
record the minutia of their lives. I’m a tiny bit envious, but mostly I am
relieved.
My own youth is largely
undocumented. What happened during the first thirty-odd years of my life is
contained largely within my own biological and untrustworthy soup of memories,
and to a lesser extent in the equally unreliable memory dumps of those who knew
me then. Other than that, there are a few photos, public records, and other
documented facts—but not many.
That Iggy Pop
concert…a great memory, one of the best shows ever—but would I want to relive
it? Not a chance. Same goes for that party on the golf course, and the night I lost
my virginity, and that South Tucson disco…oh yes, so many events that must be
severely edited.
My past is a mystery,
even to me. I shudder to think of today’s young people facing the raw records
of the future past they are recording today.
I am thankful that so
many things I have said and done will never be known. And I am sad that much of
it is gone forever, surviving only as fading echoes of that which made me who I
am.
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