I used to write myself ten-year letters, written on one birthday to be opened a decade later. I got one yesterday, written from myself-at-fourteen-to-myself-at-twenty four. Here is how it begins, no doubt largely derived from the Emily books I borrowed the idea from:

Dear twenty-four,

When you open this letter, will you find a procession of ghosts: puppets of long forgotten or ignored memories? Will I seem like some half-happy phantom of your past, whose yet rosy hopes and ephemeral dreams you would give much to have? Will each and every one of my predictions and queries hurt you? Or are you a humourous, happy, lighthearted lady who will laugh at my childish bitterness? No, you will not. We made a pact of it years ago, didn't we? We promised we would never - well, you would never laugh at me, your little old self. So more likely you will read my letter like one reads a known-by-heart story - the way I re-read my favourite books, for example. You will rest your eyes on every line gravely, slightly curious. Sometimes a chill will pass over your heart at mention of something you have failed to become., or ceased to care about. On the other hand, if perhaps any of our dreams have come to pass, you will be very happy I've noted something about it here, won't you? ...

So there you are! I was quite eloquent at fourteen - sometimes I wonder if I've improved at all in vocabulary or writing style in all these years. I still wax poetic and I still punctuate my sentences with dashes and exclamations. On the other hand, even if I haven't changed in character, I feel miles away from my teenage self: too old and jaded to see the world through rose-tinted lenses, but too loyal to my old ideals to give them up.