Incoherent Thoughts

Today, I listened to the songs I used to love long ago. A flood of memories came rushing back. Happiness, sadness, even madness—these emotions didn’t come separately but as one tangled existence. The memories delivered pain, brutally at times, but I was also deeply grateful to have them.

If there’s a relationship made up only of happy memories, I believe that must be a false recollection—something created and altered by the brain.

What are the elements of memory?
This is one of the most persistent and provocative questions for me. Every second that passes carves out a new space in our minds. Most of these memories are stored quietly, tucked away in some corner of the brain, while a few find their place at the very center of our being. These are the ones that shape who we are. They influence our personalities, and sometimes even transform us so drastically that we no longer recognize ourselves. I believe it’s important to understand exactly what has affected us—what memories and experiences have had the strongest impact on our lives. That process of discovery can offer clarity—not just about art, but about life itself.
What do I love most? Why did I begin to love it? These questions and their answers may seem tedious, but for me, they are foundational. And yet, finding accurate answers is never easy.

My memories aren’t always clear. Some barely linger, while others disappeared long ago. But a few remain, following me everywhere. Funny enough, the most persistent one is about a boy I once went to school with. I can’t contact him, and I haven’t been able to find him online—he’s vanished, almost as if he disappeared on purpose. Still, I remember his face vividly.
I don’t (or perhaps I do) want to find him. I think I just want to keep the memory.

For over a year, I had a one-sided love for him. To tell you the end first—it didn’t go well. In fact, it ended cruelly. I still wonder what might have happened if I hadn’t confessed my feelings. Maybe we could have been friends—or maybe things would’ve turned out the same anyway. Even now, he remains my ideal type.
He had terrible drinking habits. He couldn’t read the room, was a bit selfish, and was overly interested in women. But he also had a kind heart and the cutest smile. And… he had me. I desperately wanted to be close to him—to become his friend. I wanted something more, but he only saw me as a friend. Actually, I don’t think he even saw me as a woman.

At the time, I started wearing makeup and pretty dresses to look more feminine. I hoped that if he saw how I’d changed, he might change his mind about me. (Oh, young me…) I even practiced Korean songs I’d never heard before—such a naive and silly idea. It wasn’t really about me.
Even if I had managed to change in that moment, it wouldn’t have satisfied me. I was so focused on my own feelings that I couldn’t see his. I kept pushing until he left me—completely.

Experiences like that change you. Through this recollection, I realized how immature, dependent behavior can make things worse. I’ve come to understand what a mature relationship might look like—one not based on fear of separation. It’s hard to attain, but like a precious stone, it’s worth searching for.
I’m still growing, still trying to find myself, still preparing to spread my wings to the world.

Do I still miss him? Of course I do.
But I think what I miss more is that moment in my life—when I wanted something so purely, with everything I had.
Maybe someday, I’ll be free from that pain too.