The Echoes Which Reverberate In A Silent Room

I often find myself living in the past. I look at old photos and recount what lies behind them. I listen to music, and it brings me back to moments I cherish and hold in fond memory. I read books and am thrown back to similar moments in my life. But these are not merely moments of nostalgia, it feels more like moments of grief; grief for the “good times” when I wasn’t burdened by such pain that today seems like a constant and ubiquitous companion. My pain is as much part of me as the breaths I take. I often find myself checking out of the present moment. My memories are both my escape and my prison. My mind has sealed me in a coffin of failed expectations.  

Memories have become a burden. Although it might feel nice to look back every once in a while and reflect on what’s changed and what’s remained the same, the truth of the matter is that I no longer just look back – I withdraw into the memories; I let them consume me. They have become like a kind of crutch, and it feels like I am unable to walk in the here and now without them. I retreat in them in hopes of finding some glimmer of peace that I had when they were being made. I get stuck in them, like walking through quicksand; the more I try to push myself out of them, the deeper I sink. I have lost track of the current moment, and I don’t know how to get out.

If it is as Huxley says, and memories are your own private literature, it seems as if I sometimes behave as if the book of my life has been fully written. I often forget that there is more to come, and I go back to what has already been written so much so that I forget to continue writing; to continue creating new memories that I will look fondly on in time yet to come. It feels as though I am crippling my own stories, not allowing them to breathe, to become something more. I seem to have hit upon writer’s block, and I foolishly act as if the answers I seek are to be found in what has already been written. They are not there, of course. I don’t know where they are or what they are, but as much as I tried to find them in the past I could not.

 I wonder what memories of this time will be left for my future self, will it just be a blank space, a hole without a story, something I would rather forget, or will there be traces, something beautiful to come out of this, something which will make me tear up from joy thinking about in some future time, in some future space, by some future me? Or perhaps, something in between these two will emerge. Not blank but not beautiful; a memory of struggle, of pain, of loss – as a reminder that life can sometimes be difficult, brutal even. It can paralyze you, but it could be a sign that it is something you can get out of. For though it may sometimes seem like this is the end of the story, it’s not, it’s a period that will pass like the wind, with time. A painful reminder of the ups and downs of life, imprinted upon memory and remembered in the future. I do not wish to forget.