Chasing Time: Where Memories Linger and Movements Rise
A Time to Fight
A fleeting moment or a lingering passage of time—I'm captivated by how it slips through our lives, shaping everything we do, everything we are, and everything we will become.
They say time moves fast. I never understood that—until now. Now, I find myself racing against it, or maybe just racing to find it. Time runs, it sprints, moving at unimaginable speeds, and I’m left breathless, struggling to keep up.
Again, I find myself tasting the bitter before the sweet, the bittersweet. Memories hold onto emotion forming a sense of nostalgia which is like a drop of melancholy that is always visible and reflective. Memory tied to nostalgia has begun to feel like a slow burn until it aches so badly that I wish to forget, only to find myself back in nostalgia’s seat looking for more. It’s not sadness per say, but a mourning of the past and a yearning for the present with a similar fondness, pining for the present to hold the same weight as the past, for each moment to be more than fleeting. It's a delicate ache, a reminder that even the most cherished memories bring both comfort and longing. Nostalgia, after all, is a gentle reminder that we live between what was and what could be.
Nostalgia is a fickle glue, clinging to memories and leaving a residue that lingers, sticking to your skin long after you've tried to let it go. It doesn't wash off easily. You find yourself playing with it between your fingertips, drawn to the texture, almost enjoying the way it feels—yet, it's irritating all the same.
We often link time and memory to smell and taste. My earliest memory lingers because I can still taste it—chlorine and red licorice. Every time I catch the scent of a Red Vine or take a bite, I’m four years old again, back in Phoenix, Arizona, leaping into the pool. I see the water sparkling under the sun, the white tile of the patio, two chairs, and a glass table with nothing but a large bucket of licorice on top. It’s a happy memory, but still with a tinge of melancholy layered underneath.
Memory has a way of pulling you back, even when it stings. It's like catching the scent of chlorine or tasting Red Vines—both familiar and bittersweet. The ache is gentle, but enough to make you reach for it again, hoping it might be as sweet as you remember, even when it leaves you with that soft, layered melancholy.
Maybe that's why moments like this one feel so intense, so sharply defined. We’re in a time that seems destined to lodge itself deep in the mind, shaping memories that I suspect will ache and linger just as those before them. This ache isn't merely personal, it’s fueled by a collective sense of panic and urgency.
I wonder if I’ll remember this time in my life—this day, this week, this month. My chest aches with a deep, pressing weight of anxiety, and a heaviness that lingers. It’s a time when the world spins just a little too fast for my liking and a time when my rights as a woman hang in the balance, open to debate. My body feels exposed, as if it's being paraded around for discussion, because it is.
I remember the day Roe v. Wade was overturned. I cried that afternoon—on a zoom call with my therapist, where she let me sob openly, my words coming out in yelps as I pleaded for it all to be a bad dream. While I live in a state that still protects my reproductive rights, countless women don’t have that option, and it fills me with a rage I didn’t know I had. This isn’t just about my safety, it’s about the collective safety of all women. I didn’t think it could get worse, but here we are, in a time when a man believes they can dictate not only what a woman should do with her body but with her mind as they believe we should ‘step aside’ and get back to where a woman should be: in the home.
I say no. Actually, I shout NO. The women before us fought for our rights, and we will keep fighting. Even if I’m out of breath trying to keep up in this race, I’ll keep running until I see the finish line.
We live in a time marked by division, where hatred is glorified, and racism, xenophobia, sexism, and homophobia melt into the soup of unrelenting malice. Some stand ready to drink it in, while others shout to pour it out.
I remain hopeful that a time is coming soon when we make history—a time when a woman of courage, strength, resilience, and persistence leads our nation. Because, in the end, only one thing endures: our shared care for humanity.
Our voices won’t be crushed into silence, reduced to mere whispers as we’re forced to kneel. We are warriors, shadows of the women who stood before us, their hands in ours. The voices of generations past will not be silenced. With our hands clenched into fists, we rise.