On The Impossible Past
And a dream of life that won't come true
Why are all of our regrets rooted in romanticism?
Romanticism of ideas. Romanticism of desires. Romanticism of aspiration.
Romanticism of people.
We, the romantics, carry our burdens and shortcomings viscerally. They air in the form of constructs of our mind, both bingeable and excruciating in nature, to see play out before us. They are the minutes of our past we so badly crave to relive, yet dread going back to.
Mine almost always find me sitting in the driver’s seat of a car. Here, so many transformative moments in my life have imprinted themselves in my genetic code, forming crucial, critical, agonizing, and melancholy memories.
Like the time at the red light. And the time I felt confident in who I was meant to become.
Or even the time when I drove into the setting sun to the tunes of a playlist called “Thinking of You,” pursuing a fabled, wonderful life.
When I take myself back there (and fuck, it takes a lot to do it), I’m met with a tranquil rush of nostalgia. Instances where I rested myself, my whole self, unguarded and vulnerable, in the assurance of others. This is part of the journey we embark on in this thing called life, and the serenity and sense of purpose that comes with deeply loving gives purpose and reason to each day.
We all search for a reason to believe. Frankly, we need one.
Because reason can be fleeting. As the tranquility always is.
What was once peace becomes pain. What was once good falls apart. The calming gaze that stared in awe across from me, running between my eyes and my upper lip, fades and disintegrates alongside the doors around it.
Whatever world that was constructed, personally, professionally, no longer exists. This is now a dream of life that won’t come true.
Some nights, even better days can’t stop my brain from falling victim to these trips. No matter how healed we are, we will always carry our scars. On the impossible past, I’ve mourned a future where anything could have been possible.
Regrettable.