Lifetimes within our lifetime

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​I rarely read my old work. In fact, I hardly ever even think about all the old stuff I’ve written and scattered around the various spaces of my life: thumb drives, websites, my Google Drive account, a personal folder or two on my computers, old journals in the guest-room closet. When the thought of these artifacts’ continued existence does cross my mind, my “should” machine slips into gear and churns out the usual concoction of guilt and anxiety. The machine, it should be noted, is maintained in good working order by way of a steady application of my insecure belief that I am squandering my talents as a writer and wasting an opportunity to become a wiser, more useful version of myself by neglecting the various resources I have at my disposal—such as my old work—to both generate new ideas and affirm my progress through the various passages of my life.