It’s Black Saturday, and almost morning of an Easter Sunday, the quiet feels heavier than usual. I’m sitting here alone, far from the world I once knew, the one where I grew up, where everything seemed so much simpler. I didn’t plan on diving this deep into the past today. At first, I just wanted to distract myself, to ease the ache of being alone. But as I started remembering, really remembering, I realized this has become something much more meaningful.
I think about those days in the fields, running barefoot without a care in the world, laughing so hard my stomach hurt. I can still feel the dirt between my toes and the sun on my skin. I remember the ghost stories we told under the stars, our voices barely above a whisper, hearts pounding with that sweet kind of fear only kids can feel. I remember family gatherings, the comfort of familiar smells and sounds, the way traditions brought us all together even when life was hard. And yes, I remember the shadows too, the things that scared me, the things I didn’t understand back then.
Now, all of those moments... they don’t feel like just random memories anymore. They feel like pieces of me, like bricks in the foundation of who I am. Even the painful parts.
A lot has changed. People I love have passed on. Places I called home have disappeared or don’t feel like home anymore. But still, their voices, those people, those places, echo inside me. They show up when I least expect it. And in this strange stillness, I realize I’ve come full circle in a way. I’ve found my way back to that little boy I used to be. The one who believed in magic, who felt everything so deeply, who didn’t hide his wonder or his fear. I miss him sometimes. But now I know he never really left.
Writing these memories down feels like opening a door that’s been shut for years. And what I’ve found on the other side isn’t just nostalgia, it’s understanding. It’s healing. Our past doesn’t stay in the past. It walks with us, quietly, sometimes in the background, inside our head. It shapes how we love, how we hurt, how we keep going. It teaches us, even when we don’t realize it.
This isn’t just the beginning of some story I’m trying to write. This is a reminder to myself, maybe to anyone reading this, that no matter how far we go, no matter how much time passes or how much we change, the child we once were is still inside us. Still curious. Still scared sometimes. Still full of wonder and joy and questions. Still human.
And maybe, especially in moments like this, that’s enough.
Tags
a man called me
autobiography
Chapter 1: The Beginnings -Conclusion
CHAPTER 1.6 THE BEGINNINGS
The Beginnings - Conclusion
the story of my life