Time Travelling and Dust

Time travelling stirs so much dust.

Last Thursday, I decided to search for all my past blogs–the ones that died or got killed by my evolution, regression, or personality changes. I still have my old Yahoo! email and the others that I used to make the blogs, but for the life of me, I couldn’t remember some passwords. It must have been all the dust accumulating in my memory stopping me from remembering. It’s gotten so thick, and maybe, if I try to plant potatoes in it, they’d sprout like they were in Idaho or something.

Apparently, the trick to time travelling is dusting off the right door.

I found my old email address, which was a fairly new one in Gmail. The password was just lying to the right of my gleaming memories of the Snow Queen. It was lightly powdered with dust and covered with cobwebs, but it was still recognizable. I entered those in, and–voila! I was back in 2003, in college, and  under 66 feet of memories, the dusty, decrepit, and decomposing ones.

I suddenly realized something about dust:

Dust is partly made of human skin cells–dead ones that fall off via friction. This means that   it’s me or parts of me that fall, scatter, and then accumulate to cover different areas of my house. My old posts seem to be like that. They’re partly who I was, and they fell off of me when I changed, grew new skin, or just brushed through a particularly abrasive experience.

I feel lucky to have traveled back to the past.

The posts, the dust in my mind, and the real ones in my room, revealed parts of me that I’ve shunned and scrapped off. They smelled like insecurities, immaturity, and mistakes then. I didn’t like myself then. Now, I can’t help but see that they’re beautiful. They’re me–or pieces of me. This bit of time travelling coated me in dust, which I would have dusted off immediately, but now, I’m liking it. I’m showering in it, and I’m appreciating how they tell me that I’m not who I used to be. I’m better–at least in comparison to who I was.


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