Outside, a moon would have been slipping away into the deep of the sky, then coming slowly back in again. A moon always was, of course. The light it cast on the forest looked like threads amongst the tree darkness; looked like yearning, although maybe that was just me. I sat on that old sofa which was also my bed, because there were too many ghosts in the bedroom, and I wrote about sea, stars, moonlight.
I wanted to grow up to be a wise strong woman with herbs in my hair and poetry written on the back of my hand. But those island nights unravelled each thread in me and left a wild darkness I've never quite mastered, let alone stitched back into good sense. But you know, I recently came across someone asking that old question, what wisdom do you have now that you wish you could pass on back to your younger self, and I think in some ways I was wiser then. I spent most of my money on music and books. I left my shoes behind more often than not. I knew where the magic was on the path to home (literally: in a knot of roots that had broken the surface of the stone, and when you stepped over it you sometimes went through several minutes, and got back to the house later than you reasonably should have.) For years after I left the island, I would panic at the mere thought of returning there. Sometimes now I wish I could, though. Maybe not the actual place, but the candlelight and dust, the music soaring across sea and forest, the feral dreaming in me lost in long, star-burned nights.
So, what wisdom would the teenaged you pass forward to the you of now?