I used to think it was a great thing that computers and the internet make it effortless to keep every scrap of our lives intact, retrievable five, ten, fifteen years on (2012 notwithstanding). There is undoubtedly a pleasure in reading something I wrote five years ago, because I can almost remember my state of my mind. If it's something good, I can pat myself on the back for being so good for my age (!), if not I can marvel at my progression since (whoever said I was pessimistic?). And heck, I always need to remind myself that life is continuous, and it's as good a way as any. But it's sometimes not what you want, in that it's proof that things were a particular way. The occasional faults of memory at least used to leave open the possibility that things were misremembered, that because of our inability to recollect and remember everything, maybe, just maybe, things were the way we would like them to be. But now you can dig through the archives and be presented with cold, unarguable truth. Reassuring when that's what you want, depressing when it isn't.