The Journey

She clutches the oversized black tote in her small hand, dragging it with every step she takes. The road ahead is narrow and winded, clouded by a squall of thick, blurry haze. She squints and tries to demystify what lies beyond the grayish blur – how long more until she reaches her destination? She can’t see past the haze. She sighs and pauses in her tracks, her chest rising and falling with each irregular breath she consumes. Sweat has matted her hair to her skin, and she hastily wipes beads of falling sweat with the back of her hand.

That is when she notices the little blisters on her reddened palms, caused by the strain of carrying her large bag. She unzips the tote and peers inside, only to see what she had packed; framed pictures – millions of them. Each picture was bordered by the same dark wood. She shakes her head in disbelief. How could she have packed nothing else but all these framed memories? Are they sufficient to get her through the rest of the journey? Now she understands why the bag feels as heavy as a hundred pounds – there are numerous wooden frames in there; each containing a captured photograph of her past. She stoops and pulls out several frames from the bag, taking time to stare at each of them while allowing memoirs of the past to haunt her mind.

There she was with her best friend from tenth grade, grinning at each other as they lay on their backs upon the lush green grass of her grandfather’s farm. The picture was taken by Grandpa himself, when both the little girls were too busy giggling over a shared secret that they hadn’t really bothered smiling into the camera. She closes her eyes now and tries to think of how close they used to be in Elementary school, and how far apart they are now. It seems like Irony itself is mocking at her right this instant, because her once-upon-a-time best friend, the girl she gossiped rumors with, is now the same girl who created ugly rumors about her.

She doesn’t want to think about Janice anymore. She places the photograph on the dusty road beside her and digs out another picture; this one showing a family of five, smiling brightly into the lens. But as she stares a little longer, she detects a strange look in her father’s eyes – a distant gaze that could be reflected in the painted smiles of her family. She sees herself posing a little awkwardly; a young girl who just passed her fifteenth birthday, smiling faintly.

At one glance, anyone would have assumed that they were a very happy family. But the truth was nested beneath the forced smiles and shrouded eyes; happiness had long vanished from their home. She remembers the nights she spent crying in bed because she had just heard her father slap her mother right outside her bedroom. She had wanted to pack her things and run away and never go back, but she never did it. She couldn’t bring herself to leave.

Today, she is finally on her own. She had been travelling for what seemed like endless days and nights. Her back is aching and her feet are burning with sore blisters. She glances over her shoulder at the road she’s taken; it stretches thousands of miles into the evening sun behind her. She sees her footprints in the dust. Each step has given her a new memory to keep. Her black DSLR hangs around her neck. This is the camera that has produced such quality pictures of her life. Everytime she stopped, she would take a picture of the moment before moving on.

When she turns to see how much further she has to go until she reaches her destination, her heart sinks. The haze hasn’t dissolved much, but she can distinguish the road which appears to be a long, unending thread of brown. She feels al the energy draining from her. Glancing at her bag, filled to the brim with photographs from her DSLR, she knows she isn’t strong enough to carry all those memories for the rest of her journey. The bag has been weighing her down.

It takes her a while before she realizes what she has to do. She can’t quit and go home now. She’s come too far to give it all up. She can’t rewind her past, and just thinking about it dampens her dreams for the future. She hates her history; the one she crafted for the past twenty-two years. It was dotted with bitterness, pain and remorse. There are so many things she wishes she could do, and yet too many things she wishes she could undo.

A tear rolls down her cheek. She wipes it away. Is it worth crying over the past, now that it is behind her? She forces herself back onto her feet. If not for her past, she would not have been who she is today. As the evening breeze whispers around her, she gets a sudden flashback to when she was in History class many years ago, and her teacher was saying, “We are the products of our past.” She used to ponder the meaning of that phrase. Now, she understands what it meant.

Although she agrees with her teacher, that the past shapes the present and the present shapes the future, she is aware of another school of thought forming its way to the front of her mind; we are inventors of our future. We don’t need to be governed by our past. Who we are shouldn’t be because of what we were in the past, but what we want to be for the future.

She smiles as a surge of fresh confidence rushes through he veins. It might be too late to go back and change things, but it’s way too early to quit now. She reaches out to pick up the tote, and then draws her hand back. She decides to leave the black tote behind, because she knows it is pointless facing her new journey with the heavy burden of her past. It is time to let it go.

She inhales a few gulps of air, and continues to walk ahead. The DSLR dangles over her front. She pats her loyal friend fondly and raises it up to take a new shot. As she does so, she whispers, “Let’s make new memories. Don’t run out on film.”

25.05.09

Life’s journey is mapped out for us; all we got to do is live