the past is full of stories that have already ended
october & the ghosts that haunt us
Winter is around the corner, I can feel it in the night’s breeze, the way it slaps my face red, a harsh reminder that Summer has ended and there’s still so much left unsaid. The impending cold can’t be stopped. I can’t hold onto the August heat the same way I do everything else—with sharp claws and unflinching intensity. The flowers will die, the leaves will fall, and the nights will stretch on. There’s no escaping death, no escaping change.
My coats have been pulled out of storage and I tug one on as I hurry out the door, careful not to wake my roommate. As I’m halfway down my street, I find a crippled-up piece of paper in its pocket. It’s barely dawn, darkness still holds the day hostage. I squint to read it: a receipt, its ink nearly vanished. It takes me a second to make out the date blotted at the top. October, last winter, 2023. I’d scrawled a small note, trying to preserve its significance, yet now the words blur into oblivion, the reason for keeping it forever lost in the fading ink. All I know is that it belongs to the past, a remnant of a time that’s already slipped through my fingers, a story already ended.
Another year, nearing its quiet close. A year I’ve spent stuck in a perpetual state of longing, of feeling so afraid of the future that I remain stagnant, unsure of which path to follow. Many nights spent sipping red wine, my glass never quite empty, quietly refilled as I retell memories to old friends in some sadistic attempt to make sense of what’s unexplainable. Upon reflection, a masochistic routine. Days spent hunched over the mirror, picking apart every inch of my face, my body, trying to remember the parts of myself I’ve lost, hoping if I poke and prod enough they’ll reappear like magic.
This year inspired many stories, most of which exist folded between the pages of my notebook, tucked away from the rest of the world—most will stay there, locked up, hidden from prying eyes and curious yearning. Many of these stories are just endings; ghostly tales that remain haunting me. Stories about people and places that know me barely by name and almost entirely by heart, by touch. It is very easy to be weighed down by how infuriating that kind of ending is.
I spent most of last October stuck in a fever dream, tormented by fear—afraid of being an adult, of existing in an adult body with adult responsibilities. Despite my best efforts, my inability to navigate the existential crisis it provoked was debilitating. I didn’t realize how terrified I was of it of everything, of how much it had taken from me without my noticing: days spent with racing thoughts, constant crying, aching muscles strained under tension. A profound fatigue that made living dreadful. When I reminisce now, I want to embark on a victory tour of apologies. I worry the all-consuming fear I experienced last Autumn seeped into every nook and cranny of my life, leaving me bedridden and desperate to piece together whatever small fragments of a happy existence I could still find.
This October I am still afraid, though less of adulthood. It would be a lie to say the fears have completely vanished, but they’re lighter. What haunts me now is the past. I find myself lost in the abyss of my memories for hours on end, with no lifeline to bring me back to the land of the living, seeking asylum in what’s already been buried.
I’m haunted by my longing—a self-sanctioned destruction, reinforced by delusions of ‘what ifs’ and ‘could have beens’. Really, I’m just grasping at straws, attempting to find refuge in seasons already lived, loves already had. My youth haunts me (in that familiar inevitable way it does), slipping from my grip. Holding on to it has begun to cause more harm than good. I’ve become the sole composer of my suffering, hiding behind soothing melodies and long-drawn-out beats to mask how painfully dull it naturally sounds.
I shove the old receipt back in my pocket and continue walking, hyper-aware of the sudden weight clinging to my coat. I text my best friend:
do you think i spend too much time living in the past? 6:19am
She replies a few hours later, while I’m sitting at my desk, struggling to focus on my work:
maybe 9:02am
Another text a few moments later:
i think you just have a hard time letting go 9:02am
doesn’t it get heavy though, carrying it with you all the time? you run around all day with like 3 obnoxiously heavy bags, i don’t think you need any extra weight 9:04am
My friends and I convene around my coffee table, its faux wood finish glowing softly in the candlelight, the scent of lavender infiltrating the air. I watch the tiny clouds of smoke swirl from the incense (perfectly balanced on the ashtray brought from a tiny market halfway across the world), mesmerized by its dance. Old friends and new, sitting crossed-legged in a circle, tipsy off cheap wine and full from the feast we spent the day preparing. The night wears on, glasses clink, nostalgia suffuses the air.
We scroll through our photo galleries, fingers working their way up to the top: 2019…2016…2012. We take turns showing old photos of ourselves—snapshots from high school, elementary school, university—laughing hysterically at baby-faced versions of ourselves, groaning about the outfits our parents let us leave the house in. We shriek at screenshots from forgotten text arguments, toppling over in anguish at photos of exes and former friends. As always, this descent down memory lane ends with someone finding an old baby photo, or another pulling up a group photo from our 8th-grade graduation. The ritual concludes with us gushing over the little kids we used to be, marvelling over their innocence. These photos are all we have to remember them by now.
I knew some of the little kids smiling in these photos. I stood side by side with them on the playground, watched as their hair grew longer and their skirts shorter. I remember hearing about their first kiss. I remember holding their hair back the first time we snuck into their parent’s alcohol cabinet. I remember crying in their arms the first, second, third time my heart was broken. I remember how they stitched it up every time. I remember painting each other’s nails before parties and speeding down the highway, on the cusp of seventeen, convinced we were invincible—infinite. I played with these frozen kids in the photos; I can still smell the house they grew up in. We’ve since tackled life together, as baby-fat cheeks faded into dark circles beneath tired eyes.
Childhood friendships feel like staring at an open wound, watching your youth slowly ooze out of it.
My friend shows the group a photo of her and I, freshly fifteen, our bodies pressed tightly in an embrace. She gushes remember this? that was such a fun day, god i miss being that young. I smile and wrap my arms around her, just as tightly as I once had, as immortalized by a photograph. She squeals before hoarse laughter erupts from everyone. of course i remember, i remember every moment we’ve ever shared, i remember being that young with you. we were girls together I say. And I do, I do remember. I remember everything, all of the time.
As I look around the room I realize that our youth is waning. We’re witnessing its departure with glossy eyes and slurred speech. I can sense us grasping at it with iron-clad fists, tugging on childhoods that feel so out of reach, though I swear I can still touch them if I try hard enough. Old friendships are akin to a merged heartbeat—we pulse as one, break as one, live as one. However, our mortality is showing, barely visible smile lines and bodies littered with scars from scraped knees and drunken accidents.
We may not be able to live forever, but sometimes, under the October moon, I look over at my friend smiling and I swear I see the little girl I grew up with beside me again; I see my youth in the crinkles of her eyes, I hear my adolescence in her laugh. I think if i reach out and stroke her cheek i’m afraid i’ll transport right back. Even if I did, there’s nothing there for me anymore, the stories of our youth have already been told, by us, together, with trembling hands and tearful eyes.
Can childhood really be that far away if I can still feel it in this room?
The afternoon sun glares through my window, casting a light, cameral glaze over the room, softening the concrete ceiling. It’s ironic how I declare my youth is slipping away when I find myself repeating such ancient habits. I’m tucked away in my bedroom just as much as I was as a child, watching the seasons change under the comfort of my sheets. I’ve written, read, laughed, cried, and dug out of the grave I’d buried myself in. Many stories were put to rest here, despite my bedridden state. As stubborn as I am, I can admit my faults. I know my desire to remain shackled to my past has grown into a self-fulling prophecy of self-hatred—one that I must shed. Creativity happens when one is bored. Art happens when something is sitting on your chest that you know you must kill if you ever wish to breathe again. I was both bored and aching for somewhere to rest the pain I’d spent a decade choking on.
There are many stories I belong to, many tales I’ve stumbled in and out of on bambi legs, many lives I exist in as nothing more than an elusive memory. As the end of the year teases its arrival, I’m reminded of the past much more than I care to admit, I always have one foot there, but especially in October. There’s a finality to the past that’s comforting compared to the unknowns of the future, as Becca Rothfeld1 writes, “When a story ends and presumes to gratify us in precisely the manner we claimed to want, it disappoints us in being over, which awakens a whole new appetite”. I narrate the myriad stories of my life (each an ending in its own right) with such poignant clarity it’s like a prayer I recite, kneeling on a phantom limp. Once an ending is written no surprises can come; fate is sealed. Maybe I remain reaching for my youth, desperate not for its totality but for its nurture. Adolescence had a path, a purpose to strive for. Now, I’m reaching for everything with frail arms, grabbing none of it, recoiling at the first sign of adversity.
I can only pen the past as a metaphor, a mistranslated scripture long abandoned by its worshippers. Now it haunts me like a kindred ghost, tugging on the train of my dress, looming over my shoulder, tracing its delicate fingertips down my spine. A once delighted presence converted into an unbearable absence—one I must retreat from.
I suppose last year’s confession remains true: “It’s the more ambiguous things, the things we can’t really put into words or cage in any sort of physical body, that haunt me. The real world has always seemed scarier in comparison to anything else: sometimes I get so afraid of what the entire world thinks of me that I struggle to leave the house2.” Should I find comfort in my consistency or label it stagnation? I am still scared, and afraid, and trembling with fear. It’s a dance, I assume, every young adult knows well—a troublesome tango you don’t quite understand, but you’re too afraid to mess up the rhythm, so you go along, hoping no one notices your missteps and stiff hips.
October feels heavier than I remember. By the time it arrived, I was so worn down from the year, yet I revelled in the momentary excitement it brought. The promise of elaborate costumes, parties with friends, an escape from myself. A chance to exist outside of my body, just for a night—before the angst of the holidays sets in—is a reason to celebrate. My adoration for Halloween may be wrapped up in my desire for transformation. I can feel one brewing (pun intended), as I stand at the entrance of adulthood. Let me play pretend for a moment, before I bury yet another version of me, as is Winter’s tradition.
The sun dances on my fingertips, and I am warm in my own embrace. New stories are waiting to be told, new lives are waiting to be lived. And besides, I can’t bear to think about it anymore—my youth, my foot always stuck in the past, my future. I want to lie in what little grass remains in the park before the frost makes a home of it, and I’m forced indoors.
Seasons change. Ghosts get sent to rest. New stories are written. This, perhaps, is the essence of human existence.
Life unfolds in the quiet moments, shaped by the small decisions you make each day. Achievements aren’t born from luck but from the steady pulse of consistency, silent sacrifices, and unwavering dedication. The monumental moments of your life are not the work of chance, but the quiet echoes of your character, built by the choices you've made along the way.
You don’t need to scale a mountain every day. But you do have to show up as the person you want to become and teach yourself how to wear that skin. Let go of perfection. Release your iron-clad grip on youth—you can’t escape growing up.
You already know your path to happiness, and if you don’t, what a great starting point to find yourself at.
WOW! I want to take a mintue to say hello, there’s more and more of you every month. I’m so grateful to share my words and wisdom with you. If you’ve been subscribed for a hot minute you might notice a little rebrand of the newsletter—I’m trying something out, let me know what you think <3
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Until next month …
From All Things Are Too Small, Becca Rothfeld
From anyone else afraid of the real world? Confessions Of A 20-Something, Sierra Madison
Interesting post! I plan to refer to your contemplation here in my next "Creative Curation" post, on the theme of Hallows and Haunts. All the best in your continued journey.