I like to spend my afternoons distastefully. Casually sitting on an unmade single bed, smoking my 6th Marlboro Light behind a veil of messy, rain and wind infested hair. Reading superficial magazines for the sake of keeping my mind at home. Then organizing a caffeine marathon in my central nervous system and inviting all my worries to compete in it.
As I was going through this process yesterday, a glossy magazine article bitch-slapped my delirium with its title.
Do you remember the first time? was what it was.
The article was about a new music duo who like to call themselves Summer Camp, but I never engaged in reading it.
I remained firmly attached to the sentiment in the title.
Do you remember the first time? The first time ever.
The first time you learnt to derive pleasure from good food, not just physical energy.
The first time you burnt your tongue with hot chocolate.
The first time you saw a blooming garden and your mother told you these pretty things were called “flowers”.
The first time you took a walk alone to find inner peace, not to get somewhere.
The first time you heard change bouncing in your wallet.
The first time you burnt obscure music on a CD.
The first time you enjoyed pillow fights.
The first time you put up pretentious posters in your room.
The first time you got shampoo in your eye.
The first time you switched off your cellphone.
The first time someone saw you naked.
The first time you photoshoped a picture.
The first time you created something. Anything.
And the first time you destroyed it.
As a person of many past, present, baffling, consuming, obsessive-compulsive habits, it amazes me how everything I consider an unbreakable pattern has started off with a single “first time”.
And each first created an entire new universe to get sucked in.
Like tiny seeds that grow into a garden of black orchids.
Every novelty you pursue creates a new place to belong to.
Every first builds a little house for you to visit when you’re lonely and searching for answers.
This is your eternal home. The neighborhood of metaphorical houses each first has built for you throughout your life.
Some people prefer to call that neighborhood experience.
Or even worse – memories.
But that sounds degrading. And kind of temporary. Short-lived and forgettable.
Your past is a permanent, indestructible map of you . It lives till you stop living. It moves with you. It rests with you.
It adjusts to you.
Contrary to popular belief, it does not prevent your ultimate future from happening.
It enables it.