The state you find yourself in quite often is a reflection of who you might be, or rather who you already are. My great-grandmother used to peel the skin off of fresh peaches for me when I was young. I would eat the fruit, devouring every slice she would set down. The plate was never full and nor was it truly ever empty. My hands would occupy the space, effectively eliminating the entire purpose of the porcelain dish altogether. In a bowl to the side, long strips of red, the skin, would lie. I’d eat these strips after there were no more slices of sweet fruit left. It felt wrong to throw them away. They spoke my name, pleading to not be mixed with the discarded pieces of food preceding them.
I remember playing outside in the hot sun. The waves of scorching air would hit my bare back as I ran my shoulders and hands through cold water from the hose in my relatives’ apartment yard. We would sit altogether down by the fences lining the area. It was like a picnic every afternoon. They would all drink their tea and speak while I played, silently yet so loudly, in the dirt and flowers surrounding us. My best childhood memories are still stored in that yard, now beaten up and abandoned by all who ever resided there.
I spend much of my time grasping at these memories whenever I can. It seems that the older I get, the more worried I find myself about forgetting who I once was. I spend my nights before bed closing my eyes and replaying every memory I can scavenge in chronological order. Sometimes, I discover that there are memories I could replay the night before but no longer can. I pressure my mind to reiterate voices at the same frequencies I heard them the first time, but in lieu they distort further and, eventually, the entire sentences spoken evanesce from my recollection. These nights are the most worrisome. When the tears descend down my face, I ruminate if they hold fragments of those memories I catch myself forgetting. I quietly wish I could shovel them back into my eye ducts and remain hopeful that they might restore the voices and images in return.
I see now that my nostalgia does not blossom from a place of sadness, but rather a place of happiness. I play back these memories over and over again to pursue my motivation for living my best life. My only issue with this nostalgic feeling seems to be that I depend so heavily on who I was before that I cannot focus on who I might be now. In my desperation to not forget these heartfelt memories, I fill my mind to the brim with them and leave no room for who I am to develop. Through my writings and projects, I aim to make up for this long-term fault. I want to understand my current self as well as I understand who I once was. I trust meryem.earth will assist me in achieving this higher purpose.
