Man feels especially ready to write when his heart aches, but, is in want of words when circumstances are good and growing.
It is at this time, that his paper will reflect back to him words which, at present, seem so unfamiliar as to be mistaken for the outpouring of another’s mind. Slowly, does he realize that what was written is his own, but in earnest, wonders what state of mind provoked such harsh or romantic words: for to forget one’s own wit fills him with the feeling of utmost betrayal. That he has lost the trail of a man he once called himself.
But: the "I" of the present, cannot and will not be "I" of the future, and in such stride, it is a kind mistake to attribute greater authority to the words of one’s past than to the present.