A place only we could reach

Hey Little, Hello Big,  

You might find this silly, but while I was writing this, a song called Somewhere Only We Know danced in my mind. I’m not sure if it’s the kind of music you listen to, but it was the earliest song I can remember recording on my Nokia. I remember crouching by the warm computer speakers, holding the blocky Nokia frame against it. Little. You shouted our older sister’s name right before the singer began. So, your voice is imprinted across the canvas of my memories every time I hear that song- at some moment in time, right before the lyrics begin, I hear you call her name.

Big. You are a person of many gifts. You always had a sharp eye and a sharper imagination that I envied. Despite the toys we shared, from the hard doll figures to the stuffed animals that grew warmer when we snuggled against them, we chose to take a liking to her shoe, simply because you told us to. With careful hands, you took off the straps off her left feet, narrating the brand new game we would play. Excited, we leaned in closer, capturing every word you said. The school girl’s shoe, once jet black and smeared with dirt, could talk. It suddenly became an entity of many magical gifts. It could transport us into new worlds. 

It was the same thing with our blankets. We would tie them up against the wooden railing of her twin bed. We would slide down onto the cracked, tiled floors, but to us, we had entered a new reality. One where we could be anything. We believed in these little games because we were children, and we children could create stories out of anything. Those were my favorite games to play.

Little, Big. You both might wonder why I’m reminiscing. You might think I’m being silly again. But that’s okay- I wanted to apologize. Growing up means realizing that we were dreaming of a future that couldn’t exist- a future too big for the spaces we inhabited. Was it the same for you? I don’t think there was a big catalyst for this realization. As time flowed on, our worlds became smaller with every death and revival. As our eyes became duller and our minds muddled up, a cycle of leaving and returning began. Our worlds no longer shifted through spaces we wished for. One day, I struggled to breathe. I could barely take one step back before my back collided with walls- walls placed by others, walls placed by myself. It’s amazing how the body adapts so much against constraints- withstanding the weathering of time and pain without even realizing it. Until it doesn’t.

You might be wondering why I’m writing to you both. You might think my ramblings are empty words, leading to a pointless venture. But the question of our future has been tingling in the canvas of my memory. A blank space in the painting that my brush cannot glide through. I always wondered why the only solution presented was leaving. Disembodied from our pasts, anxiously stumbling towards vague concepts of peace. Our bodies are shaped by the lives and times of the people before us, and with that, we carry their collective tragedies. The world subconsciously carved our minds around us and the powers that be. Through death and revival, we are constantly changing but still stuck in the same conditions that caused our deaths. It is said that a person’s path has been predetermined from conception, but I want to see how far I can recreate my destiny.

So, now, even as I’m deliberating on what to do with this space, I’ve decided to drop the brush for now. If my body can be molded by collective worlds and histories, then I believe that I can transform my frame. I’m an empty collection of white bones, with only a sure spirit to guide me. They are both covered with fleshy tissue. As I walk through the world around me, I tear off pieces of it; the discarded pieces leave a trail of a story that has been retold thousands of times. I pick up leaves and fresh soil, and like wet clay against fingers, they become new flesh. Flesh molding and shifting till they harden to a new body. My mind is a vast field with knowledge waiting to be sown. I hope that every piece of wisdom and every instance of joy will restore the sparkles in my eyes. I am at the precipice of the end and the beginning. My spirit is molded by the spirits of those who came before me, and my own being will help shape those who come after me. Are you still there, Little, Big? Do you think that’s the same for you? Do you ever think of what could be? Do you think it’s ridiculous? Hope is such a silly idealistic thing- it can be a stay in a space of naivety, or it can be pushed for something more, something deeper. If I was blessed with gifts, it only makes sense to use them to the very best of my desires and abilities. I think I’ve become the simple minded corner of the triangle, your hopes flowed unto me.

Part of the canvas is still left blank, but one day, I hope we can varnish it together, our fingerprints indenting its surface. Like the shoe and the blanket, that space becomes a portal to a new world of possibility. Unambiguously vast and beautiful. A place only we can reach.