Everyone seems to be moving on, while I'm stuck on this page, waiting for the words to come, waiting for something unknown. I wonder how people do it, how they exist, how they survive life as it is. It makes me think they are somehow stronger, and more suited for this world than I am.
I never really move past anything; it's as if these feelings just accumulate, the emotions lingering year after year. Everything I've ever wanted to say still feels raw, and the melancholy from how people made me feel keeps replaying in my mind. No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to forget or erase the pain. Even if I follow all the handbooks, I always end up back at the same place—the beginning.
I don't think I'm the only one who feels things this deeply or torments myself with the past. But as I go through the book, hoping to reach the last page, the words intertwine at the center, bringing me back to where it all began.
Where did it start?
When I was seven, I dreamed that someday I would grow up and take care of everyone I loved. But the universe laughed at me, and the ties were broken. People died, others left, some moved away, and some even forgot about me. It seems they dared to move on and forget about the sweet, innocent child I once was.
When I was ten, my parents broke into a fight, and I could only stare in horror. This wasn’t love to me; it wasn’t what I saw in the movies. My parents loved each other in different, yet harmful, ways. I became the collateral damage, hit by the shards of glass before they struck the wall, and wounded by words not meant for me. My mother’s growing resentment turned into lashing out because I reminded her of my father—her mistake.
Falling in love for the first time, I thought life would never be the same. I dreamed of something different from what my parents had, riding the high of a naive little girl envisioning a heavenly romance. But then one day, they forgot and moved on—and I never did.
Perhaps it was feeling like a woman for the first time and opening my eyes to the world as it truly is. I realized that no matter how hard you try, you will never fit the image society wants. And I understood that everyone was watching, expecting me to grow into my mother’s daughter—someone I could never become.
It was recently when my best friend's laughter sounded strange. I knew it was time to say goodbye to the person I loved and to accept that we were different now. She had learned to move on, and my being tethered to the past only hindered her growth. I loved her and wanted her to grow. She moved on, but I don’t think I have.
I don’t know how people do it, how they manage to carry this weight. Leaving it by the side of the road doesn’t seem like an option—it clings to me, it’s a part of me. Some days, I wake up thinking it’s gone, but it always returns, and I hate myself for it.
My mind is a museum of everything I ever held to heart, everything that ever made me feel something. I wonder who I would be without them. Maybe I hold them so close fearing I would be nothing…
But every morning, I try to forget. I remind myself that letting go equates to growth, and if I remain a coward all my life, these memories are just taking up space for the important things—for the things that actually matter.
I think it's easier to be fully present in your life when you understand that every moment is fleeting, that everything is running away from you. All the people are just characters, and when the pages turn, some will disappear, the ink will fade, but the story will go on. Eventually, when the ending arrives, you’ll be on your own. If you're lucky enough, someone might stick around long enough until the curtains call, but there must always be a time to say goodbye.
“You can’t spend your whole life being afraid of goodbyes. Live, please.”
Comments