The Awe

Looking at my child, I’m reminded of how I used to feel about everything — the quiet awe, the constant wondering of how things worked, why they existed, and what made them alive.

Mind you, I also believed my dad’s car was a Transformer, among a few other nonsensical things. Still, I did manage to prove the existence of Santa by age seven — so there’s that.

My earliest memory is from when I was around four or five. I had rolled down a flight of stairs by accident. I remember the pain, of course, but more than that, I remember the red lines that appeared across my skin afterward. They fascinated me. I didn’t cry for long — I was too busy staring, wondering how my body could change.

Everything back then was like that. Every ant, every streetlight, every human face felt like a new story waiting to be understood.

In adulthood, I was diagnosed with severe ADHD. During the evaluation, I almost gave up — not because I didn’t care, but because the tasks felt endless. I tried, but my mind drifted toward everything else, including its own spiral.

I believe my curiosity once saved me. I stayed disciplined not because I had control, but because I was enchanted — by reading, by learning, by exploring. I did these things out of joy, not duty. Back then, everything felt alive.

But adulthood… the world has turned into a grayscale bitmap. It’s lost its colors. The things I once loved have faded into routine. The hardest part isn’t struggling to focus — it’s forgetting why I should even care.

When I watch my child gaze at the ceiling fan as if it were the edge of space itself, I feel that stir again — the old, restless wonder.

That’s what I want from my stories. I don’t dare to ignite wonder in others, only to offer a faint hope — a reminder of the wonder we once had. Because that’s all I can show: small fragments of what’s been lost.

Vignettes of the Soulless.