They say we’re the sum of our memories, that these fragments are woven into an elaborate fabric known as our identity. But how are we formed by things we’ve forgotten, suppressed, or never truly understood? How do we fill those voids? With stories. That’s one response. The other is: by letting time pass.
How different life appears in retrospect. How wistful we become, looking back on such chaotic chapters as adolescence, when personal misfortune and hope alike are boundless, experienced exclusively in the extreme. We do our utmost to escape our youth, because we’re convinced there’s a world beyond, just waiting to be discovered. Youth eventually passes, of course; only then do we turn around, and we’re shocked by the banal realization that we can never go back to the magic of that period. The full force of some experiences takes years to unfold. That, too, is part of youth: we enrich and injure each other without even knowing it.
We cross paths with people who disappear, then in retrospect we recognize their influence as seminal. Connections dissolve or grow stronger. We continually try to make sure of ourselves. Maybe it’s no different than the sea and the cliffs— you don’t notice what’s changed till the morning after the storm.
