When We Became the Past
No matter how far we may be swept away—into the crowded streets of New York, to the hot coasts of Australia, or beneath the high ceilings of Berlin’s old apartments—every now and then we return home. To our town. To a world in which time seems to stand still. And we feel superior. Because no one there had the courage to attempt even remotely what we have achieved.
The streets of the small community are still the same ones we rode down on our BMX bikes as children. Walked along. We know them inside and out. Every corner, every shortcut. Even today we dream of the time when these alleyways were the arteries of our childhood existence. And every meter—no, every centimeter—is burdened with memories that break over us at the right moments.
As I stroll along the main street on a sunny summer morning and don’t encounter a single soul, my thoughts begin to wander. They rise up above the town, sketching out a map. Of the houses. Of the paths. Of the fields. And everywhere, markers pop up with mementos that pull me in at the slightest mental touch and replay what has made me who I am.
How, at twelve, we broke into that trailer to use helium stolen from the fair to turn our voices into Mickey Mouse’s. How, at thirteen, we called the emergency doctor in tears because Maria crashed into the fence of the outdoor pool while sledding and so much blood ran down her face that we had to throw up. How, at sixteen, we sat on the slide at the nearby playground while Paula pulled up her white top, bare-chested and waving her middle fingers, to insult the neighbor who had tried to beat us with a shovel the day before.
When I come back to myself, I’m standing on a small bridge just outside town. Near the allotment gardens that seem abandoned. The sun shines into my face, sweat runs down my forehead, and beneath me a small stream makes its way toward the next village. I stare into the clear water and suddenly an unavoidable truth becomes clear to me—one that makes my heart heavy and brings tears to my eyes.
We ruled this place, made it tremble and shake. We were the ones who roamed through its gates at night; we kissed and ate and fought and cried and came and shouted and laughed and drank. Loudly. Fiercely. Boldly. So that we might immortalize ourselves. So that our deeds would still cause murmurs a hundred years from now. So that we could not die, even if we had long since passed.
Our graffiti has faded. Our legends fallen silent. Our markings erased. The generation that now runs wild in these streets has no idea what happened here years ago. What we risked. Whom we touched. How many enemies we made and how many friends stood by us. They don’t care. Our names don’t matter to them. Our places. Our sorrow. Our songs.
And then we realize that we have not a single reason to feel superior. Because we have achieved nothing. Because nothing lasts. Not in this place, nor anywhere else. And that it is completely irrelevant how far we travel and what we experience. With whom we experience it. How often and how intensely we experience it. Because at some point we turn around. And none of it is there anymore.
Our mementos drift through the town only as vague shadows. They have no effect, no longing. Yet they serve as proof that we have been replaced. By young people who consider us irrelevant and write their own legends in the places that once served as the backdrop for our memories. And this is neither the first nor the last time.
But this generation, too, will one day return to this place. And they will stand on this bridge, and they will cry, and they will become aware of the fact that none of their wildest, most passionate, most dramatic actions will lead into eternity. That their youth is a copy of a copy of a copy. And that everything falls apart the moment they turn around.
All that remains to console us is the eternal dream of doing something no one has ever done before. So we are swept away to the crowded streets of New York, to the hot coasts of Australia, or beneath the high ceilings of Berlin’s old apartments. We don’t think of a copied life; we believe in a unique one. That makes us strong. It is the only way not to lose our minds.
We carry on. We fill the empty legends of our memories with new adventures and images and smells and tastes and sounds. And perhaps next year we can return here again. To our town. To a world in which time seems to stand still. And we feel superior. Because no one there had the courage to attempt even remotely what we have achieved.