History works in a strange way. It repeats itself, and that saying has this undeniably negative connotation to it. But not all of history has been tumultuous, and I think that’s what troubles me.
Whenever I think too hard about all the people that came before me, my head starts to ache. I get this uneasiness in my body… a pit at the bottom of my stomach. It isn’t painful, but it’s not satisfying either. I could do without it, but the fact it happens at all serves as a reminder that I’m alive. It gets me thinking.
Thousands of years ago, children were held up by their parents to press their bloodied hands against cave walls to mark their presence. We know this because hands that small can’t reach 6 feet high in the air. We know this because those small hands are usually accompanied by larger ones. It reminds us that they weren’t lonely— they had a family. It makes me think about how my father used to hold me up to put ornaments on the Christmas tree, and how he’d always give me a boost to level a frame that was crooked when I couldn’t reach.
It’s so strange to think about the ways in which history repeats itself because you don’t notice what’s happening until you’re in the moment or until you look back at it. 10,000 years ago, humans were just as emotional and maybe even more complex than we are now. There were no outlets for their rage; they were vessels for it. Their joy was only shared with the people around them and the memory of them is fossilized now. The air they breathed is either trapped under layers of ice or it’s being cycled in our lungs now. Anything that’s ever been on earth remains on earth as long as we let it.
History is supposed to show us how much we’ve changed, how much we’ve evolved, but I think the real beauty of it is to show how much we’ve stayed the same. How much of human nature is preserved after thousands of years is incredible. There is graffiti on the walls outside of my apartment the same way that there’s graffiti on the walls in the Colosseum. The weight of my laundry basket against my hip or holding a baby at my waist unlocks this nostalgia for a woman who existed millennia before me. I mourn her whenever that wave of grief washes over me. I get a strange feeling whenever I have a ladle in a pot and I’m stirring something. I don’t know if it’s reminiscent of whatever womanhood is or not, I don’t know if I’m supposed to feel sad or if the strange sense of joy that doing things homemakers of the past have done is meant to bring me comfort. I slow down.
I think of the bodies found under rubble after Pompeii, the way that their charred remains were curled in the fetal position— the same position I lay in to fall asleep at night. It makes me realize that we are looking for warmth at the end of the day just like we will at the end of our lives. Every human before me has laughed, has cried, been hungry, and has had a strange sadness they can’t put their finger on. The past might not be roaming the earth anymore, but its feelings are, and those emotions live within us. How beautiful, how innocent, how humane. It really makes you stop and think about cycles, and how sometimes, they aren’t all vicious.
inspired by a tiktok I came across, surprisingly.
written December 10th, 2022