Old Beginnings

In my grandparents’ stories things tend to move around a lot. Events aren’t exactly consistent. Sometimes, different people die in those stories. The past is no fixed thing. It moves with us through time, coloured by the passing years. It changes because we change.

Memories are living things. They fester like unfinished business. They grow like letting go. Whatever they do, they do. I see them now less like rigid replays in our mind's eye. Instead, they're a dialogue, a conversation. Sometimes, they're an argument - often with ourselves.

There are many trapdoors in the rooms of our past. It is not a place to visit casually. There are ghosts waiting there. Though, a ghost isn't always what you think it is. Yes, it might be something you run from, something you don't want to look at. But sometimes a ghost is just someone who needs to be set free. Someone whose shadow fades with an "I'm sorry" or "you were right".

Assuming death doesn’t fuck things up — it does that sometimes — there is a future version of us looking back at our present selves. What will they think?