Past

I have taken up the dirty habit of sorting through my past. I have kept far too many mementos in my lifetime. Online conversations, emails, thoughts, notes, pictures. It is all too much to think about at once, and when I try, I feel horribly overwhelmed. My past, I am sure, is all behind me, but there is always a small piece of each event that lives on with me day to day, carrying itself through the ambiguously defined present into the horrifically well-defined future. Each piece latches on to my soul and drags it down, making progress slower and making a small knot in my stomach which is impossible to get out. These events, however bad they may be, are all priceless to me. They are the last shreds of my identity I have remaining from the years, weeks, days, even seconds before now, right now, at this very moment. I cringe, wince, sometimes when certain people or places cross my mind, not necessarily because they were bad, but because they were over. Many things that brought me temporary happiness are out of reach now, and the empty palm of my hand whistles with the air passing through it each time I try to grab it. 
 
Of course, the objective always is to not dwell on the past, but to remember and learn from our mistakes and experiences. Something about that has always bothered me. Maybe it is because I have a strange inability to let things go, small things, sometimes years after their actual occurrence. Maybe it is because I strongly detest leaving things unfinished. Maybe it is because I don’t truly know who I am right now, in the present, and am forced to collect the small pieces of data left behind by my past. It is this way only that I can form some sort of silhouette of my true self, and maybe form an abstract guess to my persona(s) realities, whatever they may be. Am I the cold, emotionless one? Am I the lover? Am I the fighter? Am I the jocular prankster, filled with mischief and levity, or am I the grave, serious man who knows no humor and no joy other than his duty? Am I all of these, packed into one human being so tightly that he fears the slightest twitch in time would cause the seam to burst, and the stuffing of his personality to erupt from the stitch? The question remains unanswered.
 
Perhaps it is the question itself that is bothering me. It is the simple puzzle of life, fit in piece by piece, with certain spots empty. Are those spots missed opportunities? Or are those spots of the future, yet to be filled with new experiences and trials. They are indiscernible from one another. Only at the very end of life will I be able to see the Grand Puzzle laying in front of me, and find that the black spot in the bottom left hand corner was actually the missed trip to a foreign country, or the hazy mess in the center was a failure that could have been avoided if I had I only…if I had only…if I had only…
 
And so we enter the endless circle. Time itself.  When I reach the end, what will I have missed? Have I lived my life to its fullest or has each speck of my well-spent time been a waste after all? Who is to blame? Is it me? Is it fate? Is it another body of intervention that threw me off my path because I didn’t fight hard enough to stay on it? The connections are all there, past, present, future, but the situations in which I connect the wires are always questionable. The successful businessman who always wanted to be an artist, but chose the wrong path. Is he successful because he is a businessman? Or is he an utter failure because he chose the path not best suited to himself? It can be examined from so many perspectives.  
 
It is a feeling most closely acquainted with nervousness. It is a futile emotion, however, as it accomplishes nothing, just as nervousness does nothing. It only hinders the purpose. It provides no added encouragement or enlightenment; it is simply a burden on the soul. This feeling, this fear of regret, is like a stomach churning sensation when certain thoughts cross my mind. It happens, too, when I think of the choices I am about to make, the ones that will truly shape my future. In a sense, it could lead me to glory, to fortune, to adventure, to a live I’ve always dreamed of. Unfortunately, there is always another side to adventure, one which I am prepared to accept, but not prepared to regret. I will delve no further into this piece of the puzzle.
 
I refuse to let others influence my decisions. I must be my own person, and make my own choices. On the other hand, I also remove the burden from others in helping me think and place the whole world on my shoulders, by knowing that every deed I do, every choice I make, is mine and mine alone. A very satisfying feeling, but a very ominous one at that. If I fail, I have nobody to blame but myself, and therefore can fix my mistakes. I also, however, have no added assurance that these choices were to my best interests, or will be to my best interests, whatever the case. My past haunts me every day, though there is nothing really in it to haunt me. I just fear, silently and solemnly, that someday I will have a great realization, a revelation if you will, that my life should have been lived out <i>this</i> way, with <i>this</i> scenario and adventures. Who will save me then? 
 
Nobody. I will not ask for help. The past and future are mine, and mine alone. The past, however, is irreversible. When slicing 18 years into the face of time, the scar forms instantly. I still mourn my past, and wonder daily with that gut-wrenching feeling, like that of a piece of me forever lost, but I cannot change anything that has happened. Time is the great callous, forever hardening around my soul, sealing in my destiny, and eternally shoving me down the long, winding tunnel of life. Change is not an option.
 
 
 
 
 
 
And here’s the scary part.  I wrote this almost eight years ago.  Now, looking at it, I am afraid.  So terribly, terribly afraid.