A few weeks ago my
mother thrust into my arms a big dusty box and said "This belongs to you. I don't know what's in it. We found it in the cellar."
Turns out, it was a box full of old books. Mostly geared toward young girls, and a great deal of them published between the years of 1940 and 1973. They have that musty, old-book smell, and I was literally swooning over the find.
I read quite a few, and enjoyed them all over again, but with the distance that becoming an adult sometimes affords. However I may look at them now, they are more precious to me than they were the first time I received them so very long ago.
I have likened that experience somewhat to my re-emerging interest in the machine that is everything2. My memory of it is rose-colored, and looking at it again, what I remember is still for the most part there, but my perspective has changed somewhat.
The point I suppose I'm trying to make here is, it's the same but different, and what we do with it greatly depends on our perspectives and our willingness to dive back in and enjoy it just as much as (sometimes more than) we did initially.