From Myself to Myself

«As a child, I'd often send myself a postcard when I went on family holidays, It was an act of delayed masochism - I knew I wouldn't receive the card until I got back home and my holiday was over. The postcard was like a time capsule, sent from myself to myself, but the version of myself who sent the postcard was irritatingly smug. 'I'm sitting by the pool,' I'd write. 'I might go for another swim once I finish writing this. Anything good on TV in England? How's the weather?' Back at home, reading this message, I'd reconcile the sense of jealousy I felt towards the version of myself who was still on holiday with the fact that I knew things he didn't. I knew, for instance, that he'd leave his sunglasses behind in his hotel room and that his flight would be delayed on the way home.»

James Ward, Adventures in Stationery