“How far we all come. How far we all come away from ourselves. So far, so much between, you can never go home again. You can go home, it's good to go home, but you never really get all the way home again in your life. " -Thomas Wolfe
For Now Productions presents Once You Leave, a 12 part series and online experience. This is an early posting of episode 1.01: you can never go home again.
Joined: April 17 06, 7:42 pm
At some point, we all leave and we learn the hard lesson that in life, you can never go home again. Not to the place you were. But you also learn to take all the best and hardest parts of your past and you build again. You find your shelter. It’s the infinite loop of discovery that we all travel. You spend years thinking you can never go home and one day you look up and realize you are already there.
I heard once, in a television show maybe, or in a book, the phrase ’you can never go home again’. I think about it often. This is the last year that I will know most of the students around me. Already whole groups of students exist completely independent of me and my existence as they form memories and opinions of their own of this place I have called home. As of next year, I myself will be a memory - a sharp one at first, but growing dimmer and dimmer as time passes. Eventually all that will remain of my existence there will be a picture of my smiling face in a dusty yearbook, my name on the wall in gold calligraphy. I feel almost angry about it - the idea of other people, other young students taking over what I have loved. I feel cheated - that I let the time pass so quickly, that there is not more of it left. I wonder how alumni must feel, walking on this ground that they walked on decades ago. Do they look down the lane and remember themselves? Swinging by, studying, laughing, crying? Are their memories just as vivid? Does this bittersweet feeling ever truly fade? They must have at some point thought forlornly to themselves, just as I have, that this place is no longer theirs, that it has slipped through their fingers almost without their knowing to be loved by someone else. Did they realize, as they were making memories like the ones I made, that time was escaping them? That they were growing older by the second? That this familiar place was becoming, in small increments, ever more foreign? That their home had ceased to be, existing no longer as a physical space, but only in their memories?