The Thinking Sapling

Somewhere on Facebook lies a collection of poems written by an awkward twelve-year-old. They are embarrassing, random, and surprisingly, thought-provoking. You see, when I was around the age of eleven to twelve, my sister and I were writing quite a few poems for the fun of it.

The collection is rather random; we have a child trying to be introspective mixed in with a fun collection of Minecraft poetry and a few attempts at horror. I wonder whether I was trying to sound profound or just writing whatever I had on my mind. The Minecraft phase was going strong back then, as they made up an adorable but still slightly embarrassing amount.

There were a lot of grammatical issues. I was still getting the hang of English, but I’m bewildered by some things I was attempting to write about. There were poems about an idealised land, an attempt to describe the natural world, and even an attempt at writing a short story!

Honestly, I want to rewrite the ones that belong to me and post them here. I hope to better polish my childhood thoughts and sharpen their words and imagery. But what was I trying to communicate through them? Because, try as I might, I can’t remember why I wrote these.

I could guess based on general facts I know about my life back then and the core memories I have, but I don’t recall what inspired me to write these things. I feel like I am fitting vague bits and bobs together instead of simply saying, “Ah, yes, I was inspired to write this after seeing XYZ.”

I don’t know the exact intention behind each stanza, much less each word. I could guess what I was trying to say, but so could any reader who reads these words. I could perhaps do a bit better, having a better understanding of my history, and yet, the picture isn’t complete.

In a way, I feel like a reader rather than an author. I feel like I’m interpreting my work from nine years ago, trying to guess what the author was saying based on what I know of his life. Yet, try as I might, I don’t truly know his muse or his intent.

In a rather Parfitian sense, perhaps I am not quite him.

I’ve lost most of his memories, and I’ve experienced much more since he penned those words. If our thoughts, impulses, and memories make up who we are, then I’m quite distant from who the author was.

Tragic? Perhaps. It seems I can’t quite truly sharpen up those words again, or at least not in a perfect way. Yet, I still want to take on this quest of rewriting these things. I mean, at the very least, it will be a nice bit of reflection.

Perhaps I shouldn’t focus on what he was trying to write. I can’t do that because I don’t know that anymore. Instead, I’ll offer my interpretation of those poems and write them out in the way I read them.

I’ll try to base it on what I know he was going through at the time of writing, but I can’t expect to get it perfect. Think of me as more of a cover artist rather than a remaker.

I will offer an author’s note after each post I make of a rewrite, where I will briefly discuss what I think he was trying to say as well as the original version for you to see. I’ll do my best to reduce the impact of how I currently view the world, but since this is a mostly interpretive exercise, I think such issues will still be present.

Taking a step back, it’s a bit funny, no? A twenty-year-old is upset because they can’t remember what their twelve-year-old self was saying. In ten years, will I be going through the same thing again? Eh, who knows?