Or: A Processing of Surprisingly Complex Emotions
There’s something oddly surreal about holding some preserved artifact from three years ago. Bright, young faces, looking out of the pages, brimming with hope for a brighter tomorrow. Short write-ups that all sound the same, yet are supposed to convey some sort of unique personality trait for all of those faces. Vivid flashbacks of all the petty, life-threatening concerns you were so burdened with all those years ago.
I just got my college yearbook.
All of a sudden, taking this trip down memory lane doesn’t sound quite as fun as I’d hoped it’d be.