i got my short essay back in history today and, much to my chagrin, discovered a B on the last page, complete with bold comments in red ink. admittedly, i was disheartened to find the letter there after all of the hard work i put into that essay. i know it’s still the beginning of the year, but this time around i was really trying to get As. last year was my time of unmotivated laziness. this year was supposed to be different. thoroughly discouraged, i am already going through the possibilities in my head that maybe i am just stupid and no matter how hard i try i will never again see those A’s i was so used to receiving in high school.

speaking of which, i had a chat with alan last night about my past friendships and relationships of no more than a few years ago. it feels odd to reminisce about past conversations and moments i shared with those friends, and realizing that i don’t even think about them as often as i used to feels even odder. they begin to appear as fairytale creatures to me, if i ever do take a moment to think about them at all. they aren’t tangible, animate things any more. they revert to only names and faces that would be as real to me as any character in a hollywood film. i simply don’t think about them. well, unless nostalgia attacks and i find myself writing useless posts such as this.

when i look back on those times, i almost concede to the fantastic idea that it was someone else laughing at those inside jokes and tenderly kissing those boyfriends — it surely could not be me, at least not the me i know today. it’s as if those people who experienced the different periods of my life are strangers, completely separate from myself. i never knew them; we will never come across one another and, thus, bear no association. my past selves are estranged from my present self.

sometimes i wonder if this body of mine is merely a shell that different people jump into and zip up like an elaborate masquerade costume. it is then handed down to the next person, who is very unlike the last one, and it is their turn to do what they will with the costume; they may stain it with shame or decorate it with honour. either way, the next person in line has to live with the stigma or pride that has befallen the chosen body.

autumn is always a time for retrospection in my little world. it must be the gusty winds of change turning over all of the leaves scattered on the ground in disarray. it has always been my favourite season.