Is it okay to mourn a life once lived?

I've not put out a creative piece of writing in years. What used to be my go-to therapeutic hobby has now got me slumped at my newly designated office table in absolute defeat as I continue to wrack my brain for ideas on what I'd like to say to you. It's clear that I'm not who I used to be, reader, and I don't know how to feel about it. As little bits and pieces of my current self get woven into this piece of writing, somewhere in Tokyo, nestled in the corner of an unassuming café in some random neighbourhood, remains a version of myself suspended in time—never progressing beyond the day my plane took off for Singapore. I think about her all the time. I hope she's doing fine.

See—it's no secret that despite slowly closing in on three decades of life on this earth, the fear of changing still holds me hostage to all I used to know. Despite having witnessed the different seasons of life come and go, the ebb and flow of time continues to take me by surprise, and my heart trembles at the thought of a tomorrow filled with unknowns. What happens when lasagne no longer evokes a visceral feeling, and the colour of one's hair isn't what it used to be? Is it okay to mourn a life once lived? How long are you allowed to grieve over the past versions of yourself? As ridiculous as it sounds, it never occurred to me that the living years would also comprise not only the loss of others, but the self, too. I just wished someone told me this sooner. I suppose the only thing I can do now is try to move on, and be better prepared for who I will become next and how I'd like to depart from her when time is up. I'll even endeavour to enjoy who I currently am.

And I'll start by writing to you this letter.

With love,
Aisha