I am afraid that this will never get written, that I will never reach back to you across time and space to tell you the things that I did not know.
I have grown into a woman who is reasonable and averse to risk and doubts her own creativity. I have been telling myself that I am writing back to you as a cautionary tale, for you were altogether too wild and wonderful.
But I have just this moment realised that it is I who is seeking you and your romantic, brave soul to ignite in me that which is too far buried to find its way out.
The truth is we would do well to find one another. I know you know things that I have long forgotten and need now to unearth. You are not a cautionary tale. You are the receptacle of dreams. Now is the time for unpacking. Nothing is ever lost. To find you is act like accessing the Akashic Library, in some small measure. Plans for this lifetime agreed upon before conception are waiting now to be brought forth.
You, me, at 18, at that place and time of leaving childhood behind holds some key. I want to write down your journey to this time now, twice your age, to see the pattern that emerges. For I knwo there is one and that the information I seek I already have.
We have lived so much and there is so much more to do - but all the pieces need to be remembered and then the next step can begin. It is a revelation this day to know I am not seeking you to keep you safe but so that you may awaken in me the fire of my memories.
A few months ago my 6 year old son asked me, quite out of the blue, to tell him what my dream is. I did not hesitate. I am an international bestselling author. I tour the world speaking about the content of my books and I inspire others to live authentically.
I have always known that this is my dream. I have done everything to make this dream a realisation.
Except, of course, to write.
I've started plenty of times. I've had literally thousands of ideas. I've got notebooks full of scribbles. I've studied and I've worked and I've pushed myself to become a better writer.
But never have a I properly pursued the path or completed one potential book of any kind. If you asked me what I would like to do with my last days if they were soon to come and I would say, to write. If you asked me what would be the content of my words, I cannot tell you.
Every attempt is thwarted by this paralysing fear. My fear is that I don't have anything to say that couldn't be said better, or has already been said better, by someone else. I am afraid to fail. And I don't know what to say. And not nearly two decades of trying has talked me out of this. And yet my dream remains unchanged. And I remain unmoving in my pursuit of it.
What am I here for? Is it this busy rush of domestic duty and money earning and procreation? Is it? And if it isn't, and I really do have choice, who funds that life? Is that even the crux of the matter?