Text by Anastasiya Buryanitsa Illustration by Oda Sundgot
An echo is supposed to be spoken and heard back exactly the same, like a reflection of sound. You shout, “why?” into the tunnel, and you expect to hear “why?” right back. But instead, life sends you back a distorted response:
-Why?
-Because why not
It’s still an echo, but not the one you expected to hear.
I like to think of echo as an amplification of sound, like in that scene where the characters in The Perks of Being a Wallflower are driving through a tunnel, listening to David Bowie, and the music just fills all the space – the physical space of the tunnel and something empty or hollow inside, something more ephemeral. Bowie in the background, shouting «we could be heroes just for one day,» evokes a poignant feeling of freedom, youth, and main character syndrome, filling that very ephemeral space and the auditory tunnels as I watch that scene. That scene often reminds me of how much I wanted to be a teenager when I was a child, and how high my standards of teenagehood were set by movies and literature.
I always dreamed of running away from home at 16 with the love of my life, with whom, of course, I would die on the same day, and who also loved The Smiths. To run away, of course, not forever, but to go with friends to a concert, to sing and dance to our favorite band without caring about anything. How we would philosophize about things we have no real understanding of, while sharing the last cigarette among us; how we would listen on the way back (home?) to songs by bands we’ll never see perform live because we were “born in the wrong generation”. And on top of it all, there’s a very moody filter, heightened grain, as if everything is being filmed with an old video camera.
But here I am, 21, sitting in my room, writing about that feeling of loss for something that never happened . I never ran away with friends to a concert, because we listened to such different music genres, that even putting together a shared Spotify playlist was a challenge. What I thought was the love of my life didn’t last longer than two years – they didn’t even like The Smiths.
I still sing and dance, but the dance feels like it’s on bones, because the world in which I was a teenager and entered my 20s, has become terrifying. I’ve had to grow up and understand too much, too soon: it’s not always criminals running from the police, but people being chased away for protesting for their own rights; you don’t grip your keys between your fingers like Wolverine for fun, but because a stranger is following you in the dark street; you read news with dread, fearing the next headline about wars or natural disasters. And the dreams, which once seemed within reach, now feel like distant illusions, eroded by anxiety about the future. My friends and I still philosophize about things we don’t understand – love, friendship, the world, and plans for the summer – while we share a cigarette, not because it’s a bonding experience, but because a pack here costs 14 euros.
Somewhere in the distance, Bowie is probably still shouting to all that never came to be: «we could be heroes» — oh, I wish, Bowie, just for one day.
