From Slumbook to Facebook

The thin often floral pages held secrets whispered in blue ink, sometimes smudged with hurried teenage angst or a stray tear, quickly dried. "Name: (in block letters, please)" "Address: (complete, for future reference)" "Birthday: (so I won't forget... maybe)" "Crush: (top secret!)" "Ambition: (reach for the stars)" "Favorite color: (tells you something, doesn't it?)" "Favorite song: (the soundtrack of our fleeting now)" "Message to the owner: (be true, stay gold)" A chain letter of the soul, passed from hand to eager hand, a fragile cartography of burgeoning identities, a desperate need to be known, to be mirrored in the careful script of someone almost-a-friend. Where are those books now? Gathering dust in forgotten boxes? Their secrets faded, their owners scattered, ambitions perhaps realized, perhaps not. Did we ever truly know each other through those carefully constructed facades? Or were we just performing intimacy, practicing the art of revealing just enough, and holding back the rest? The weight of those shared pages, a ghost of connection, a reminder of a time when vulnerability was penned in childish handwriting, and the future felt vast and full of unnamed possibilities. Now, our profiles bloom online, slick and curated, a digital slumbook for the world to see. But do they hold the same hesitant truth, the same yearning for a tangible trace of a life passing, hand to hand? ©bfa041825