I don't know her, but she is me

waving goodbye to old versions of self

I am struggling to return to this space. I look through Substack at all my half-started drafts, and don’t recognize the voice anymore. It no longer feels like me.

I don’t know how that happens so fast - but it has been my only constant the past four years. Constant evolution and change and morphing into a new version of myself. A constant shapeshifting in every way possible.

I suppose that is what life is — a constant metamorphosis, becoming far-removed from previous versions of ourselves. But the shedding feels bizarre and too fast at times — mental whiplash.

I glance back, wave, and admittedly, sometimes cling to those old versions as they slip through my fingers — blurry and unrecognizable.

Only to be found later in old writing, journals, Substack posts, drafts and all the other physical and digital remnants of ourselves we bump into every now and again.

I try not to cringe when I brush up against them, surprised.

Who is this? I interrogate.

And why does she sound so weird?

I don’t know her, but she is me.

From February

My words have disappeared.

Dried up.

Went out for a pack of cigarettes, said they would be back soon.

And then, never to return.

A fling it was! Temporary! Fleeting!

And gone without a word.

I feel lost lately.

I feel a frantic feeling rising within me.

Searching. Clawing.

The world feels heavy. And heavier than usual. (Or whatever fucked-up “usual” has become since 2020.)

Are you feeling it, too?

I feel a big shift coming. Of which, I do not know.

Searching. Digging. Frantically.

For the words.

An airman sets himself ablaze.

I say the world feels so very heavy.

He says,

why don’t you put it down.

And isn’t that the problem?

That our system of living

requires us to turn a cheek

to our fellow man.

To the bodies of dead children.

Extermination of families.

And for what. Money? Oil? Power?

All for the sake of greed.

This imaginary thing.

That we made.

Why can’t it be unmade.

We have wasted our time creating our own demise.

My words are jumbled.

They can’t get out.

In the way I want them to.

And there they’ve gone again.

From March

I am working with an author right now, who has gone through a very similar experience of sudden loss, and grief.

Only she is the mother, and I am the sister of humans that left too soon.

We had a meeting to discuss her book design last week. It was the first time we met, and we talked about the book and design direction, but also about the loss of her daughter, and my brother.

She asks me if she can pray for me, and I let her.

I don’t need to tell her that I do not believe in the same god she does.

I close my eyes and I let her pray for me in our Zoom meeting.

From April

Thinking about the threads that connect us

Parts of my heart wrap all around the world.

to Chicago, to Baltimore

to Virginia, to New York

to Spain, to Australia, to Ukraine.

To places & people I know.

To places & people I don’t.

& I can love them all the same.

Thanks for being here for this brief and unedited post of brief writing from the past six months.

This year, I have been beyond busy with design clients and life in general and haven’t had the time to dedicate to this space, no matter how badly I have wanted to be here.

Seems though, in summer, I am able to get back to forming words into coherent sentences, despite being busy.

I think it’s the longer days that make me feel like I have more time than before.

I won’t make any promises, but hoping to return here in a more consistent and meaningful way.

I hope you are well.

Talk to you soon,

Linsey