It’s almost surrealist in nature how oftentimes the most minute details are able to fully capture our attention and hijack our memories. The emphasis of color and shape on a certain image, the almost caricature-like paintings of Picasso, the melting, twisting, dream-like works of Dali- flaring signals that point us towards what they have deemed important for us to see and understand. What is more genuine than irrationally juxtaposing multiple depictions of the same thing, of using the subconscious depths of one’s imagination to thwart the deathly dull conscious mind? At its very core, the surrealist movement was one of pure human nature surfacing and realizing itself. We do not see things for what they are, but for what we choose to see. A man looks at an egg and sees a bird. He looks at his wife and sees an extension of himself. He looks at a map and sees a foreign land.

The human mind paints its memories like a surrealist work of art. Subconsciously choosing the highlighted moments, the tiniest, most trivial fractions of a second heightened to encapsulate an entire day, week, month, or even a year. When I think of myself at six years old, I see myself sitting at a large wooden table meant for giants. I see a drawing in front of me- a fairy with delicate, sparkling wings. She is flying away from home, away from the loud, angry voices echoing over the hum of the household. When I think of myself at twelve years old, I am standing on a porch with a bucket of overflowing, sticky white paint. I am soaked with sweat from the hot rays of the sun, rays that are echoing angrily in my chest, telling me to run as fast as I can away from the deafening voice of my stepfather telling me to work faster, harder, until I pass out. When I think of myself at sixteen years old, I am sitting in a silver car, the mustard yellow graduation gown attempting to pull me out of the window and up into the air, away from the small, empty town I am trapped in. When I think of myself at eighteen, I am striding through narrow alleyways, buildings stretching up to the skies around me. People flood the streets, chatter, laughter, and arguments fill the deep black void of loneliness that doesn’t go away. When I think of myself at twenty I am on an ever-shifting mountain in a foreign land, the oranges of the sun manifesting brilliantly on the landscapes around me as they twist and mutate into new peaks. I am lost but there is peace in my bones at being lost in a place where it’s impossible not to be lost. 

The thing about foreign lands is that you often already have your surrealist painting of it finished before you even set foot in it. You’ve seen the news, read books, listened to what others have to say- and all the words are put into a giant bowl and stirred into a fractured, stereotypical depiction of a place you have no right to have an opinion of. It’s difficult to edit paintings when your perspective is already muted in the intangible greys of deterministic superiority and the haunting lens of colonialistic doctrines. A blank, white canvas is the only thing you should carry with you when you go off into the unknown- I know because I set mine aflame the second I realized it was tainted by the ills of prejudice. All foreign land had to be mine alone to lay witness to, to decide what was important, memorable, and heightened in my mind’s eye. Another’s depiction of reality had no place in my own surrealist painting- their opinions had no place in my memory. 

The transmuted shapes and colors of my life in China are vivid and wonderful. The palatial chambers of my mind are filled with priceless treasures of time- memories of people, places, and senses touched by the magic of perpetual newness. Love in a bowl of noodles, sitting idly by with the company of a stranger, the hot broth warming my stomach, and the chef’s smile warming my heart. The wondrous colors of nature- soft pink cherry blossoms decorating the branches dancing gracefully over the streets. Bumpy roads jolting me off my bicycle, waves of freedom crashing down on me as the streets roll on into the eternal horizon. Enigmatic signs and glances- anonymity replaced with a strong sense of personhood and independence. A beautiful, symbolic, art-laden language strong and emphatic with emotion. The sunshine-like warmth of coffee brewed and delivered right to my door when my legs couldn’t bear to lift me off my bed. Bright lights, lanterns, and flashes of a camera- families filling the streets to celebrate the festivities. The irrevocably ancient structure of an era I can only imagine, stretching out across the landscape with the harrowing strength of time. Unburdened, selfless eyes belonging to a stranger assisting me down the mountain and back to safety. Laughter, cheers, the clinking of glasses celebrating the smallest chances of meeting in such a large world. 

All these beautiful, bright, vivid pictures take their place between the dull ones, drawing in the emphasis of my subconscious and taking over the act of remembering. Alone, they tell the story of a moment- but together they collapse into each other and mix with the imaginative effects of time, creating a fantastic and incongruous painting of an entire chapter of my life in a country that felt more like home than my own. Hopefully not marred by the daft assumptions of others, I rest my painting in the corners of my mind to be continuously revisited and re-lived later in time. My other works- the ones from my youth- sit side by side in equal measure, also prepared to be returned to when I decide. They are much darker in tone, replenished by strokes of fear and sadness, of the desire to escape. Bordered in black, they represent a time I was trapped, both physically and mentally, in a place I did not wish to be. Like the boxes of a comic book, the works lie in order, showing the obvious gradual addition of colors and shapes to be shifted and extorted into new visions of reality- the one I choose both consciously and subconsciously to remember. The change in my location on the globe symbolized a great deal more to me than just a new place to see. It was a change in perspective. Forever uncomfortable wherever I was, the jump into an even deeper abyss of discomfort seemed to be the antidote to the restlessness in my soul. The freedom of discovery- the ability to create my own memories on my own terms defeated the longings of something that always seemed to be missing. It was the honor of feeling whole for the first time. 

The escape was not about leaving my home and going somewhere else- if it was, I would never have returned. Instead, the escape was about leaving the box I had trapped myself in within my own mind. Time does not always fade your memories, but sometimes attaches them to you like heavy weights that will continuously slow you down. Freeing yourself from the weights of time is not about destroying them, but about accepting them. The memories you keep with you are in the past- they are not changeable. If you stifle them, they will only continue to invade your thoughts with even more strength than before. One must be cognizant of the fluctuating effects of time- the often emphasis of painful moments over others. If you need to color it all red, then so be it- let it be how it feels to you, how it looks to you. We do not have domination over the surrealisms of our mind, but we do have the ability to let them be as they are. Sometimes all it takes is a bit of movement to leave behind the old shadows greying your views and to gain a sense of autonomy regarding how you choose to see. The present is the creator of all our memories- let the present be its own witness to itself and you will be free to choose the colors and distortions of the vision of reality it paints.