I just discovered an old notebook containing some of the poems that I’ve written when I was eighteen (and I’ll be posting some of them here). Of course, they sound crude…but these also make me realize a lot of things of who I was before. Four years seem so short but the way I see the world right now is so different from my perspective when I was only beginning “adulthood.” It’s amusing but at the same time sad to realize that one can’t really stay the same (no matter how hard one tries to do so).
I’m not also sure if it’s Kawabata who said that though time flows the same way in all human beings, the latter flows through time in different ways. I guess I’m a sort of a person who always finds herself going back in an earlier time. I still don’t fully understand why I’m like this, but maybe one reasonable explanation is that retrospection somehow offers a consolation: Though the past expires, it still leaves mementos that makes it possible for the present to exist.
They say I have to leave.
But I cannot go fully
Cannot step forward
Without at least looking back.
Pressing my hand to my chest,
I find my heart missing.
Left it under the fine linen beds
Of my sweet home.
Maybe the men outside my house
Would find it and share it among themselves.
Or maybe, they’ll bury it
Deep within the city walls.
So that I could take part in their burning
So that my soul would still be tied to the city gate
Even if my feet starts running.
And yes, if I can’t bear to leave my heart behind,
I deserve to cry salty tears.