Old me

My old self used to write poems. I used to not call them poems though.
I remember some of them. I wrote a couple new ones here, in my blog, when I was my newer version of my old self. So it is not totally an old habit to write.
Then today, I received an e-mail from a dear friend in my heart with one of my old poems in it; I read it in awe.

a few months ago I was reading Ignorance, a novel by Milan Kundera, which was a gift from the same uniquely great friend. There is a few chapters in the book describing Josef reading his diary from his teenage hood. He is more than 40 years at the time. I cannot tell that I had the same feeling as was explained in the book towards this poem, or when I read my old diaries. But at the same time there is some thing that drives me towards this part of the book:

"Josef tries to understand the virgin boy, to put himself in his skin, but he is not capable of it. That sentimentality mixed with sadism, that whole business is completely contrary to his tastes and to his nature. He tears a blank page out of the diary, picks up a pencil, and copies out the sentence "I wallowed in her sadness". He contemplates the two hand writings for a long time: the one from long ago is a little clumsy, but the letters are the same as today's. The resemblance is upsetting, it irritates him, it shocks him. How can two such alien, such opposite beings have same handwriting? What common essence is it that makes a single person of him and this little snot?" Ignorance: A Novel; Page 83