Moving Through the Cobwebs

I often find it funny that a small thing can trigger a very specific memory. For instance, looking at a maroon-shade lipstick reminded me of my high school years, when I thought I looked better with dark-colored lips. I didn’t. I just didn’t know better.

Every so often, I also like to revisit a random old song a younger version of me used to listen to all the time. It cocoons me in comfort—and I’m suddenly transported to a crowded bus during that one good, old trip where that song became my then-life soundtrack.

My mind has always been dramatic. It basks in all things hard-hitting. But even if it knows when to let go, memories are like those itsy-bitsy spiders crawling on the ceiling. I’ve been tangled in their webs for a long time. I loosen my hands from one thread just to drop onto another.

But if growing up has taught me something, it must be the fact that memories don’t always heal, while old wounds don’t always sting.

I once peeped at the front view of my childhood home through Google Maps—twelve-year-old me cried when our family had to move, but nothing stirs inside me now. I look at my dusty high school yearbook on a shelf that hasn’t been touched in a year—there’s no recollection of the “best time, will be greatly missed” claim I used to make upon graduating.

What I cherished back then will always hold a special place in my heart, but they just don’t make it beat like they used to. It’s all a part of growing up, I guess—spinning new cobwebs while letting the old ones harden in the air. But if time softens the emotional intensity of a happy memory, it does clockwork things to the others too. I look at the mirror now and find no trace of the terrified little child. My smile is genuine. And my erratic heartbeat is defined by the things I love.

For the first time, I realize that old wounds don’t hold me down or keep dragging me back. They’re there as eternal webs, bouncing me back from one thread to another as I learn to link the silk.

So. I often find it thought-provoking that a small thing can trigger a very specific memory. I walk along a familiar street and see the road I used to walk on after school. I wear an old piece of clothing and remember how the fabric used to hug me during a miserable, lonely rainy night. But my senses have heightened over time. I don’t cling too long to a thread meant to be loosened.