Memories of a boy – Preface
Time passes away. And the past becomes the future and the future becomes the past.
The future that I had never known can be seen now clearly as if a fortune teller can see it in his crystal ball. And what I see is a fact that is infallible. It became a history, no more that of a fortune teller. It is something that has happened and can not be changed any more.
Even if you are overwhelmed in a tragedy now, you can not change the past to deny it. And people who already died will not come to life, and lost souls will no longer return. Equally enjoyable once in a while will never be relished again. People call it the past. But that’s not correct. It was a future we could never know before.
It was a vague but exciting world, a world that is supposed to come someday, a world full of hopes and expectations more than of anxieties and fears, and a future which you could better dream of more than frustrate and mourn. And the dream has already been dreamed. It is over. What is right in front of your eyes is a vast and savage field where has been burned and is still smoldering, a deserted land where stars have fallen and the sea that has dried up. The huge leafy field flowing in the breeze, the innumerable numbers of sparkling stars, did we really see them?
Where are the chirrupy small birds in the northern forest, and where are the colorful fishes you saw in the bright transparent sea of the south now? Where are the friends gone whom we used to drink and sing together with until the next morning? Didn’t they swear to themselves to talk and be together happily forever without worrying about isolation and desolation? Where have lovers gone who were hugging each other with a gentle sigh in the dark park, wishing a dreamy future?
The parents who loved us are now sleeping in a grave. There are no grandparents, aunts of uncles, all good people. Who would have believed that they would really go away someday? It is more like a momentary dream than a stable fact, and it looks as if it did not actually exist. But if so, who am I? Is it an empty vision without history? Or maybe it is just an illusion.
However, I will write about what I remember against such a negative temptation from now on. All I can do now is to trace the memory and leave it as letters. Because the witness has disappeared. It is no longer clear whether this is a fact or a fiction. So is our memory. No one can intervene in someone’s personal memories and can no longer correct them. Because memories are mine.
