I finally woke up from a very long dream, at least, I think I did.
Outside the window, the cicadas’ chirping drew me away, transporting me back a year. Back then, I harbored a question deep within: “Will I recall this moment in the future? When warmth embraces me again, the breeze caresses my face, and cicadas’ song fills the air?” I sensed that soon, these vivid details would blur into a single, distant memory. Countless thoughts and uncertainties would eventually untangle, condensing into a fleeting feeling while the rest faded into oblivion.
I engage in a dialogue with my past self. I assure her, “At least now, a year later, you remember. And those thoughts? You were right. Everything you envisioned has happened, the highs and the crushing lows alike. We couldn’t embrace each other then, but now, I can honestly say, it’s all fallen into place, just as you feared and hoped.”
Last summer, I circled my fears endlessly, afraid to face them yet yearning to understand them. I dreaded forgetting and being forgotten, haunted by a persistent cloud that neither rained nor allowed sunlight through. What I feared then did come to pass. Perhaps it was a self-fulfilling prophecy, or maybe I truly understood what lay ahead.
As I sit there, zoning out, suddenly I mutter to myself, “Ah, shit.” These memories have blurred, now condensed into a single, poignant point, anchored at my twenty-two-year-old self. Standing at my current twenty-three-year-old vantage point, I can’t fathom why it condensed to a mere point, despite my desperate resistance. I begin frantically searching for any physical evidence that my memories have actually happened.
Time is finally out of my control, despite my inner turmoil. New memories flood in, forcing the old ones to be rearranged to make room. Sorting these tales feels like organizing books on a shelf, displacing the old to accommodate the new. Sometimes, flipping through those dusty old narratives feels both achingly familiar and painfully foreign. Regardless of their beauty, the swirling dust prompts me to hastily close them after a few pages, returning them to their place. It could be impatience or resignation to the relentless accumulation of time’s dust.
Echoes from a year ago ripple through time and space to find me, leaving me both bewildered and hollow. It seems my past self had foreseen this moment, anticipating my reaction now. She wrote: “You might be judging a lot right now, thinking how young and dumb I was, struggling to process all the memories and information. But I am really, really sad and scared. My rational mind still works, so don’t worry.” She feared judgment from her future self; she was terrified of her own emotions, using rationality as a shield to feel better. In the end, I’m not judging, but my heart aches for that vulnerable self.
Reflecting on this now, I feel a sense of relief in finally confronting the questions that once plagued me, yet a profound melancholy remains—an ache for my past self, and for each fleeting story that burst like a firework and vanished. I know my tendencies; I often lose things unknowingly, realizing too late. Each time I grow fond of something, alongside joy comes the inevitable sorrow of its unknown departure. Whether it’s losing an object or losing the part of myself in affection for it, the sadness of loss is ever-present. As time progresses, regardless of what’s lost, I continue losing things, piece by piece.
Loss, ultimately, is a constant state, but the path to it is excruciating. As I stand at this new juncture, I understand that memories, like cicadas’ songs, will fade. Yet, their echoes shape who I am, with the threads of joy and sorrow, reminding me that every moment, even those lost, contributes to my life. The melancholy of loss lingers, a hauntingly beautiful shadow that walks with me, whispering of the transient nature of all things.
In simple words at the end of the article: No matter how deeply I delve into them, the themes of time passing and loss always circle back to stories and ourselves, with their essence unchanged from the very beginning.
People are strange—they love stories with sad or open endings but secretly wish for happy ones. Honestly, they all have their own appeal. They are just stories, in the end.
19til29 