I have said a few times that I have been a writer since I was very young. A lot of my first stories have been missing for a long time, either buried beneath stacks of papers in drawers or accidentally (or purposefully?) thrown away. No matter if they are thrown away, missing, or still here somewhere to be read again someday, these works are like my old friends.
There are some things I have written that I think about and become nostalgic. There are memories tucked in between those words, even if the physical copy of that piece is long gone. There are some things I remember vaguely and do not miss; I am glad I have misplaced these words. No matter my reaction to my writings of the past, whether missing or not, they have created me as a writer. I can destroy them all I want. I can forget they exist. That doesn’t change how, like old friends, they affected me as a person, and as a writer. The writings of my past can never be unwritten.