I could apologize… or I could simply go to bed.

Last night, a thought settled into my mind that brought clarity to some of my unresolved feelings. It also uncovered a pattern in me that I’ve begun to recognize, a reflexive… “I’m sorry.”

 Often, I feel as if I’ve experienced something before, as if I have lived fragments of this life and I have an idea of what is awaiting– a kind of familiarity. As I feel this deep connection to fate and time, there’s a sadness that rests in me. It spreads like ink through the fibers of my being. Sometimes, my eyes drift to the darkest corners of my room, and I think of the light going out—how, in that moment, I’ll be alone. How everything will be still as I close my eyes… 

I feel trapped—like the walls are closing in. I know, rationally, that the world outside is vast, yet my perspective narrows to a pinpoint, and it’s hard to shake the feeling. There are moments when I feel powerfully connected to how things should be, or to thoughts crafted by my own belief systems. These beliefs—rooted, perhaps, in isolation—act like a virus. They replay memories of solitude so vividly that I can’t move beyond square one. And as I watch others around me live freely, building lives untethered by these ghosts, I feel stuck.

But there’s a voice inside me, faint but present. It says, “There’s no going back because there is no going back. I don’t belong there. And there’s no future because it hasn’t been written. As much as I want to believe in predestination, I can’t let constraints keep me from living fully in the choices I make now.”

I often wished that life came with a handbook. For years, this wish gnawed at me, especially during the times I was completely isolated from the world. But when the world felt too far away to reach, film was there. It filled in the gaps, offering me something I desperately needed, it was a guide, a resource, a companion. I could study it, live through it, and, for a moment, feel less alone even if it left as soon as morning came.

(Photo Source: eun_hee00)

Film gave me access to thousands of lives, all condensed within the span of my own. When I was lost, feeling deeply confused as to what to do with my life as I was lying on the bed at my grandparents’ house, unemployed and adrift. It was spring semester—a time when I should have been at school, working toward something, making myself useful. Instead, I found myself staring at the ceiling, paralyzed by the weight of uncertainty. I didn’t know what to do with my life, and the silence around me felt like it was echoing back the same question over and over: What now?

Film stepped in, It gave me suggestions. It offered me stories, pathways, and glimpses of what my life could be, if I decided to stick around a little longer.

At my lowest, I felt like there wasn’t much left for me here anymore. My life felt worn, like an old sweater you once loved but that no longer fits the same—its fabric thinning, holes fraying at the seams. I felt like I had nothing left to give, nothing left to hold onto. There was a future and I wasn’t in it. And yet, films reminded me that even a worn sweater can still keep you warm.

Even the fear of missing out, which haunted me endlessly when the weather got warmer, was quiet for a time. I found films that arrived like lifelines, capturing exactly the energy I needed when I looked out the window toward the city skyline. They sparked something in me–a flicker of creativity, a glimmer of hope. They gave me tools to view my life in vivid technicolor, even when my world felt flat.

Then, as time progressed, I realized that the fulfillment of that wish was closer than I could’ve ever imagined. In the quiet moments that I’ve spent with my friends, through each interaction, each connection. It was as if I was given amulets each filled with a certain wisdom that I wear around my wrists. Those quiet moments taught me truths that no handbook ever could.

When I think of the end of my life, I know deeply what I want. I want to know that I loved so much and that I made it through in camaraderie with the only other beings that I will ever encounter. Those rare familiars who, like me, are staring out the window of this nonsensical train ride toward oblivion. I want to look as many of them in the eye as I can and say, “I may never truly know what you’re thinking, but I understand. And I hope you understand too.”

Maybe, in the pursuit of making sense of ourselves, and of all of this, the most valuable resource we have is each other. Maybe that’s why I have this relentless desire to find and love as many things and as many people as possible. I find myself apologizing. I want them to know just how precious they are to me. My words stumble out like a plea: Please understand this.. It’s as if my heart can’t contain the depth of what I feel for them, and I’m terrified they might not see it. 

My dearest friends—the ones who have nurtured me with love and kindness I never feel fully deserving of—have pieced me back together. They’ve helped me heal the fragmented parts of my soul and, in many ways, saved my life. Every act of kindness they’ve shown me takes up residence in my heart, shaping the person I am becoming.

But for now, I hold on to the amulets. I hold on to the love I’ve received and the love I’ve given. And I hold on to the hope that even in the face of the darkness, the light I’ve carried will have meant something to someone  ᶻ 𝗓 ᙆ