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It’s been so long since I’ve used a pen, I can’t remember what my handwriting used to look like. How did I hold this thing before? What did I write about? What did I think about? What made me angry? Who was I? I was a scribbler, I think.

I have a weird feeling I’ve drifted really far away from some place, some island with no one on it. I think I was born there, grew up there, was stranded there. Can’t say how long. There was no one to keep record of my time on the island. No one to remind me if I was ever there at all. I dream about it sometimes, but when I wake up it’s gone — nothing but the smell of water and a few grains of sand in my hair I can’t seem to wash out. I belong there, I think. Whatever I’m looking for is back on that island, but I refuse to go back alone, and now I’ve forgotten the way.

The first thing I ever wrote was for my eighth grade English class. Mr. Munson, who spoke in Arthur Miller platitudes and wore funny ties, handed me a blase introductory worksheet. I think everyone else wrote about college or something. I (over)wrote some Dead Poet Society nonsense about feeling like I’ve been trapped at the bottom of the ocean my whole life with a 10-ton anchor shackled to my feet. I wrote about how every time I spoke, screamed, cried or laughed it always felt the same: bubbles rising to the light, dissipating before they could break the surface. It was the most honest thing I’ve ever written, and it was terrible, full of unjustified angst and bombastic prose.

If I close my eyes and take a deep breath, I can just make out what my handwriting used to look like. I’m relieved but simultaneously disturbed to know that it looks almost exactly the way it does now. Who did I think I’d be at 26? What did I want to grow out of? What parts of me did I hope I wouldn’t lose?

I really can’t remember.