Sunday, November 05, 2006
鎖上青年情感的手提箱 / The Suit Case
Somewhere deep in the basement not frequented by visitors, there is a collection of articles from an era gone by. Each piece represents a moment in time that might be happy, painful, paralyzed, successful or failing. Each piece is a witness to my own history, a mere touch of which will magically bring me back to the past, to a place where wisps of memories sing and dance in front of my eyes. But among the collection, there is a locked suitcase that, for whatever reason, I never have the courage to open and look inside. I know exactly what the contents are - a collection of letters to my first love and pictures of our time together. Several times I managed to unlock the suit case, but was not able to conquer this nameless fear and bring myself to actually opening it. Perhaps I am afraid that touching the photos inside will bring me face-to-face again with this youth who was so self-centre and immature. Or, perhaps reading the old letters will open the flood gate of emotions and unearth to the core years of love, bitterness and tears, to the extent I will be swept into a vortex of deep depression. How ironic it seems that we human always want to move forward and yet are often haunted by the past. We always want to be the master of our destinies and hold the pens that write our diaries, and yet our journeys inevitably will involve other people, be they ordinary friends or as in my case, my first love. Life is dramatic to the extent that one can hire actors and actresses to play it out for us on stage and in cinema. One can even hire someone to write, sing and serenade one's life story. But for the core love itself, one will be forever responsible.