(Hi, Athena! After seeing your wonderful comments, I paid a visit to your blog and you write good. I scrolled through your entries too, and I was inspired to write something because of this particular one. So, technically, this is dedicated to you.)
I find myself returning back to what was then once in a while. I frequented more months ago, but I’m at this point where I find myself running out of reasons to go back, because I tell myself everyday that the present just won’t allow it. The past may come back to haunt us, but we can’t be ghosted by it forever. Living in the past makes us ghosts ourselves, rattling on about “unfinished business” rather than moving on to after.
I leaf through my old papers and I see your name come up — a familiar tug comes back, and in that moment, it was like I was given the chance to go back. In mere seconds I remembered the air we both breathed, the words we shared, and everything in between. But a hollow feeling follows right after, knowing that this will never be the same again. The facades don’t change, but the ghosts do. I walked past it some weeks ago, and frankly, I was walking on shadows. It still felt like a dream, almost everything, and time never seemed to slow down. I moved with its speed, but not its precision. I made choices more fast than thought-out, and I leapt instead of thought. Don’t think, just do.
We all have different reasons to go back. It may be to reminisce the good old days, to find the reasons why this happened, and the list goes on. But if you really get down to the root of it, we go back is because we want to know if things will stay the same. It’s a universal truth that change is constant. We know that, we accepted that. But the truth of re-returning is wondering if I had become witness to that change, as if to say, ‘if you’re changing, let me be there,’ or the old ‘I hope I changed your life when you walked away.’ We go back because we wished that we’d be the one thing that stays constant in that cycle.
You go back once, twice, thrice — rapping loudly on the door and screaming, “I’m right out here! Can you hear me?” The first two times you’d probably think, ‘Oh, they probably have so much on their plate’ or ‘they’re probably out’ — but the third time you come back, you knock on the door more desperately and as you leave, you’d see that person out of the corner of your eye laughing with another person or not there at all. You go back because you’d want to know if you’re still the reason why. But sometimes, they don’t answer because they don’t hear us, but because they’d rather leave us at the end of the question mark — the worst mark there is.
The door should have said, ‘no longer.’