I take down my paper diary and browse. I do this every once in a while. I think it will be amusing to drop in on my former self. It never is.
It's more like wading through a morass.
Did I have a sense of humour in 1995? I certainly believed I did. But where's the evidence?
What makes the past such a gloomy place? I think it's the earnestness, the solemnity my past self displays in relation to things that just don't matter any more.
1995 is another century. Unreal. A world of ghosts.