When I was six, I thought if I ran fast enough, I could time-travel.
Not metaphorically. Like—full DeLorean-style, but powered by sheer determination and striped socks. I’d race laps in the backyard, chanting movie lines under my breath, convinced that if I hit the right speed and the stars were aligned just so, I’d blink—and I’d be somewhere better. Maybe a year ago, maybe 100. Anywhere but the present, which always felt itchy and too tight.
This image brought that all rushing back. That strange belief kids have—that disappearing is just another thing your body might learn how to do. Like cartwheels, or whistling.
The carousel is exactly how I remember them: a little magical, a little too loud, oddly still when you’re not on it. And that ghost-child—pixelated, half-gone—feels like every memory I’ve tried to hold onto and failed. A friend whose name I forgot. A summer that ended without saying goodbye.
Sometimes I wonder if memory is just a slow kind of glitch. The world keeps spinning, and we only half-download the bits that felt real. The rest? Static.
But maybe that’s okay. Maybe not everything is meant to be saved. Some carousel rides only need to happen once.
