Stop Sign
We do not remember days; we remember moments.
When I recall my childhood, not much appears: blurred, obscured truths and echoes of the past. It seems that the only thing clear was that crooked rusted stop sign. Noticeably, nothing out of the ordinary, the conventional type and unexceptional in every way. Yet, all I could remember was that sign I saw through a foggy car window. At that moment something insignificant became significant. It was ever so bright amidst the smog of my mind. Although seemingly irrelevant—it stood out in my memories.
My first day of elementary school was on a scorching summer's day. A new realm of discoveries, where unfamiliar faces flooded the halls, and the so-called opportunities lay right ahead of me. When I entered the school, that is when it all overwhelmed me. I heard them. I heard the laughter. I heard the mockery. At that moment, I felt like I had been ripped apart. I felt time had slowed. I wanted it all to end. Logical thoughts were absent, for then there was no other explanation. What else could the cacophony of happiness mean other than to subject me to ridicule? It almost seems foolish looking back.
Time moved slowly after that. Night after night I would gaze upwards towards the heavens. The monotonous sky stared back down at me. I was struck by a wave of depression. From my window, I saw that crimson stop sign, hit so many times by nature’s wrath and, regardless, it still stood. Crooked, but still standing.
Another season had passed. At this time of the year, streets flooded with rainwater while people rushed past each other —clumsily covering their heads with whatever they could. The glowing city lights shone on the pedestrians and cars drove past and left behind the reverberations with puddles behind them erupting upwards. These events happening together produces the widely recognised ambience of a metropolis. Chaotic as it appeared, there was something hypnotically ordered about it, a rhythm to it, like a heartbeat—a pulse. In this state of trance, an object caught the corner of my eye. Motionless, almost heroic it seemed. There were pieces of paint peeling off, and rust was growing. The bright crimson had eroded into a bleached grey hue.
My schoolbag slid off my arm as I walked towards my room—an eerie emptiness. I eavesdropped on conversation and only heard two words, “Cancer. Stage IV.” A deafening silence overwhelmed me. Seconds felt like hours. As I walked towards the voices I saw strands of hair on the ground as I see a woman. Pain and suffering as such? I have never endured. Pale, drained of vitality, lifeless, would not even encapsulate the extent of her condition. This would be a gratuitous demise of a bona fide stoic. The death of my aunt.
My ludicrous, shallow worries were put into perspective and forced a reevaluation on my life. No longer could I dwell on the trivial matters of a child growing up, I would become a taciturn child —a child that would see the world in glorious monochrome. Out of the blue, my grandmother’s deemed terminal illness was eradicated. After persevering an A13 surgery, an operation synonymous with probable death, she had been revived–nothing short of a miracle. The contrasting emotions brought havoc. I would argue that everything is relative. Nothing is truly small or large, yet only elements in communication in which we use.
There my stood. I could not fathom the workings of life. There was an equilibrium that needed to be kept. Indoctrinated by lies of what is right and what is not; moral ethics that do not have real meaning—or so I thought. The world was a vast library with deadlines for each book, and you will pay the fee for overdue ones. Each book has a unique story, each letter painted on, and every design carefully thought out. What difference was there with a man? The useless fabrication of philosophical thoughts did not help my mental state.
A new decade arose. Downtown Seattle was busier than ever. It was still the same routine. Cars. People. Rain. On the repeat of 24 chapters and played 365 times— an eternal cycle. My absence from this familiar city had resulted in nothing noticeable, nothing new, and nothing notable to mention. I found myself near my old apartment, looking through the cold slabs of glass; I felt the beating heart of this city. Coincidently, I became aware that I was staring at the stop sign again. Except, it had been replaced. Bright red paint, accented letters painted chalky white and placed perfectly perpendicular to the pavement. Regardless of a sign, the pulse of the city will continue.
At this moment, I finally understood. I had realised life's inequitable truth. Life is like a game of dice, a gamble, full of ups and downs. Whether it be pain, remorse, or regret, they are all certain and unavoidable constituents of the experience. To me, this stop sign was a symbol of strength, persistence, and perseverance.
We do not remember days; we remember moments.
When I recall my childhood, not much appears: blurred, obscured truths and echoes of the past. It seems that the only thing clear was that crooked rusted stop sign. Noticeably, nothing out of the ordinary, the conventional type and unexceptional in every way. Yet, all I could remember was that sign I saw through a foggy car window. At that moment something insignificant became significant. It was ever so bright amidst the smog of my mind. Although seemingly irrelevant—it stood out in my memories.
My first day of elementary school was on a scorching summer's day. A new realm of discoveries, where unfamiliar faces flooded the halls, and the so-called opportunities lay right ahead of me. When I entered the school, that is when it all overwhelmed me. I heard them. I heard the laughter. I heard the mockery. At that moment, I felt like I had been ripped apart. I felt time had slowed. I wanted it all to end. Logical thoughts were absent, for then there was no other explanation. What else could the cacophony of happiness mean other than to subject me to ridicule? It almost seems foolish looking back.
Time moved slowly after that. Night after night I would gaze upwards towards the heavens. The monotonous sky stared back down at me. I was struck by a wave of depression. From my window, I saw that crimson stop sign, hit so many times by nature’s wrath and, regardless, it still stood. Crooked, but still standing.
Another season had passed. At this time of the year, streets flooded with rainwater while people rushed past each other —clumsily covering their heads with whatever they could. The glowing city lights shone on the pedestrians and cars drove past and left behind the reverberations with puddles behind them erupting upwards. These events happening together produces the widely recognised ambience of a metropolis. Chaotic as it appeared, there was something hypnotically ordered about it, a rhythm to it, like a heartbeat—a pulse. In this state of trance, an object caught the corner of my eye. Motionless, almost heroic it seemed. There were pieces of paint peeling off, and rust was growing. The bright crimson had eroded into a bleached grey hue.
My schoolbag slid off my arm as I walked towards my room—an eerie emptiness. I eavesdropped on conversation and only heard two words, “Cancer. Stage IV.” A deafening silence overwhelmed me. Seconds felt like hours. As I walked towards the voices I saw strands of hair on the ground as I see a woman. Pain and suffering as such? I have never endured. Pale, drained of vitality, lifeless, would not even encapsulate the extent of her condition. This would be a gratuitous demise of a bona fide stoic. The death of my aunt.
My ludicrous, shallow worries were put into perspective and forced a reevaluation on my life. No longer could I dwell on the trivial matters of a child growing up, I would become a taciturn child —a child that would see the world in glorious monochrome. Out of the blue, my grandmother’s deemed terminal illness was eradicated. After persevering an A13 surgery, an operation synonymous with probable death, she had been revived–nothing short of a miracle. The contrasting emotions brought havoc. I would argue that everything is relative. Nothing is truly small or large, yet only elements in communication in which we use.
There my stood. I could not fathom the workings of life. There was an equilibrium that needed to be kept. Indoctrinated by lies of what is right and what is not; moral ethics that do not have real meaning—or so I thought. The world was a vast library with deadlines for each book, and you will pay the fee for overdue ones. Each book has a unique story, each letter painted on, and every design carefully thought out. What difference was there with a man? The useless fabrication of philosophical thoughts did not help my mental state.
A new decade arose. Downtown Seattle was busier than ever. It was still the same routine. Cars. People. Rain. On the repeat of 24 chapters and played 365 times— an eternal cycle. My absence from this familiar city had resulted in nothing noticeable, nothing new, and nothing notable to mention. I found myself near my old apartment, looking through the cold slabs of glass; I felt the beating heart of this city. Coincidently, I became aware that I was staring at the stop sign again. Except, it had been replaced. Bright red paint, accented letters painted chalky white and placed perfectly perpendicular to the pavement. Regardless of a sign, the pulse of the city will continue.
At this moment, I finally understood. I had realised life's inequitable truth. Life is like a game of dice, a gamble, full of ups and downs. Whether it be pain, remorse, or regret, they are all certain and unavoidable constituents of the experience. To me, this stop sign was a symbol of strength, persistence, and perseverance.