a letter through time
from Seoul, with hesitation
It’s the last day of May in Barcelona, and summer is here. It’s 26 degrees inside with all the windows and doors open, and I’m sitting at the kitchen table in shorts, a tank top, and flip flops. Outside, the swallows shriek as they swoop and dive, catching the early summer insects.
On top of the cabinet where we leave our keys and wallets—the one we call simply el mueble that we found in the street and looks like a pirate chest crossed with a bedside table—is a letter covered in colourful stickers and postage stamps, the largest of which says “Nuldam Space” and is half-covered by a stamp with Korean writing on it.
I’ve been waiting for the right moment to open it. “Anniki cried when she opened hers”, my friend Mie tells me on a flying visit from Singapore. “You’ll want to give yourself a quiet moment”. That moment, however, has not yet appeared.
The letter has travelled through time to reach me—I wrote it to myself a year ago while sipping on a sweet vegan matcha topped with vegan cream across the road from Gyeongbok Palace in Seoul. After wandering through the palace complex, we escaped the heat for some air-con, a sit-down, and a few quiet moments of self-reflection.
At Nuldam Space, your coffee comes with a postcard and envelope (for an additional 7000 Won), which you can have great fun sealing with wax before slipping it into the pigeonhole marked with today’s date.
I remember my state of mind this time last year, and I even vaguely remember the contents of the card (I think). I wish now I had written myself something creative, or clever, or witty. Or that I’d shared some observations about my first day in Korea or even my visit to the palace. Something that I could read back and think, ah, yes! I’d forgotten about that!
But no.
I’m pretty sure all I could think to write about was that I was sad and my life felt empty and purposeless. I remember thinking this is probably going to bum out my future self, but I couldn’t help it. It just came out.
Now my future self is my today self, and I know I’m doing better. I’m in a better place. My life feels more full of meaning and purpose than ever—even if money is a little tight. My creativity is flowing—I’m writing fiction and poetry, churning out ideas for my business like it’s my job (if only I could get paid for idea generation…). I have a nephew and will soon officially be a godmother. I’m making grown-up decisions about my life.
Why is reading our past writing so cringe?
I never read my journals—even though perhaps I should. And this letter is likely to be a particularly cringey version of a journal entry I’ve written many, many times over the past nearly four (!) years since my mum died.
And so it sits there, taunting me like the last biscuit in the tin, begging to be eaten.
And I wait for the “right” time to open it.
What a great idea. I've read some of my past journal entries before, and it really takes you back to that moment in your life. The realisation of how much has changed is so eye-opening.