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Desiderium

August 25, 2024

Merriam-Webster defines “desiderium” as “an ardent desire or longing … especially [as] a feeling of loss or grief for something lost.” I invited ellipsis, who is a super cool person I met at a summer camp. Sometime during the last half of camp, I randomly asked her to write about anything she wanted. Our essays should have had a high probability of not overlapping with one another, though in retrospect, perhaps the consequence of when I asked was that we had anticipated feeling desiderium. What brought the essays together was the longing of experiencing a memory again, as unattainable as we knew that would be.

Word soup is a dish that brings people together–and so now, I serve you a lovely collection of essays. Bon appétit!

Essays

Homesickness at Home

i miss you more than i remember you

Homesickness at Home

by mouffins

As I descended the stairs of my school after this year’s orientation, I remembered that I could skip down two stairs at a time. Suddenly, I was brought back to the Marciano dining hall stairs, its surface glistening with who knows what mysterious liquid was spilled, upside down chocolate cupcakes that performed a somersault, and bustling BU students transported into another world through their Apple devices. The image came so abruptly that I zoned out and nearly pulled a +1 on the trip counter. It would’ve been a core memory to plummet in front of all the rising juniors and seniors, and I realize that I need to be more careful–not of embarrassing myself, but of uncontrolled flashbacks.

I worry that I’ll be searching for these past memories in present moments, clinging to a comfort long gone. Is it any good to base people or places off previous data points? Two houses on my street become my temporary summer homes: one abandoned house that was newly remodeled held a beautiful view of the city, unobstructed by trees; the other which burned down from a fire a year ago, its fluffy insulation still exposed in broad daylight. They’re reminders of the places The Sanest Madmen have gone: the 17th floor of the CDS offering views of gorgeous sunsets and Boston at night; the basement of the GSU, which we affectionately called “asbestos land” for its poster on the front door.

As for people, a new friend picks apart ideas like ellipsis once did to me and holds the same fascination for exploring new music like StratfordJames's willingness to let me indoctrinate him into soft pop and Studio Ghibli music. I used to be afraid of talking to him because he questioned everything that was uttered when we took physics together two years ago, and I realized how fearful I was of being wrong or looking funny then. Not just over two years–I’m sure that I changed within six weeks at camp, but I’m not exactly sure in what way. Only my friends and family back home will see the shift.

I don't wanna move on

I don't wanna know what it's like when you're gone for good

You're slipping through my fingertips

A little bit by a little bit

I didn't know that loving you was the happiest I've ever been

So I'm just tryna hold on

Funnily enough, I used this song as background music for an Instagram story before camp. But I think it’s more applicable for coming back, because I too, fear forgetting. I tend to remember events through pictures–I need some sort of cue to stimulate my brain, which is why if I don’t take a picture of something, it’ll probably be lost to the wind. My camera roll is the reality I construct.

The image that inspired "Marmalade Skies"

Marmalade Skies

Tangerine clouds

          smeared across the sky with a butterknife.

I sink my teeth into sunset toast,

          feeding the hole in my heart,

                    and pray that we stay whole, that we never fall apart.

We watched the same sky across time zones,

          but I wonder what they thought of.

Did they see the grapefruit’s guts spilled out,

          or the glitter of night lights through a hazy lens?

I never knew seeing the sky,

          or respectively, the skylines,

Was a privilege to be enjoyed,

          like marmalade on toast.

I scroll through the thousands of photos and videos accumulated over six weeks, and I realize that I am dangerously using my camera roll as an escape. I know that watching us chairing in GSU or playing in the park at the Charles Esplanade will make me happy, but there’s that pang of tartness in my heart as the video finishes. I live through the videos–soon, my memory will be constructed merely through visual and auditory senses, not of the emotions in that moment, nor of other senses, like touch or smell. The complexities will slowly slip away. I remember now–isn’t smell supposed to be what brings you back to a memory?

But even then, I am a video producer. Eventually, I’ll have to face the task of constructing a summary of these memories. But nothing, nothing will ever compare to the moment itself. The video fails to capture nuances and richness of the memory. I worry that in cutting down on content, I’ll remember the watered-down version too, and then my memories are merely a museum, becoming an empty hallway without a cue.

Nonetheless, I’m grateful to have these memories, because they’re proof that life does get better. I can trigger happiness through a photo or video irrespective of the fact that it’s an altered version of the original memory. No matter what, the memories will all be altered in some way, so why worry?

But really, I need to be careful when descending the stairs next time. They were steeper than I remember.

i miss you more than i remember you

by ellipsis

Time is relative, but the six weeks of summer burn too quickly. There is something bittersweet about existing in moments that will pass into memories.

My friends sometimes marvel at my memory. Or rather, they marvel at my crystalline descriptions of past experiences. I have come to notice that a small sliver of my memories exists in eidetic scenes, like a hologram, or the Live Photo function on an iPhone. In between busy days, flashes of the past would come back: the angle of a slight smile, the glint of a streetlight on glasses, or the melody of a forgotten piece. Memories of faces or places sometimes superimpose, trapping me in a time loop. Ryan said that people with eidetic memory remember things too clearly, and all their pain never fades. To a small degree, I know exactly what he means.

And so, I joke that I am afraid of remembering. The sharp clarity of some memories comes at a cost: a wave of nostalgia or an unwanted ache. Ryan also said the feeling of nostalgia closely resembles one of both joy and disgust. Perhaps joy from the bleeding sunset and golden rays. But disgust too, at the unshakeable thought that perhaps we were never meant to be more than another body heat on a cold lonesome journey. Perhaps we were condemned to fade in each other’s memory.

In reality, I am more afraid of forgetting. I live with the fear that moments will disintegrate between my fingers as time marches on. As I fly across the world to another time and place, I amuse myself by conjuring snippets of this summer camp. I remember my shoelace dangling off the dorm rooftop, flailing in the wind. I remember holding my breath through a plume of smoke while dashing back for midnight curfew. I remember the faint lightheadedness of playing Ondine upside down on an abandoned piano. I tell myself that I will remember this summer. But what I mean is that I will miss this summer painfully.

I landed at the Hong Kong Airport 16 hours later, thoroughly disoriented and disheveled, like I just woke up from a dream. On the Airport Express, I rifle through the photos of the sanest madmen, scrolling through the countless mischiefs we’ve managed together. With a stab of panic, I felt as though the sound of their laughter was already slipping away. And worse, this is not something that can be taxidermied in a photo on my phone.

But apparently memory is an illusion: we only remember the last time we remembered, and never the event itself. Perhaps this is why my kleptomania flares when I leave somewhere I won’t return to, an itch for something to curl my fingers around. When my memory fades, how would I know that the past I yearn for really existed?

An afterthought

Perhaps we meant to only exist in moments: a burst of laughter by the riverside wind, a fluttering pulse under a cold fingertip, a last warm hug with tears held back.

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