Existing inevitably results in time spent with others. People come and make memories, they build their nests in your chest and leave their favourite albums in your car and their video games strewn on your bedroom floor and occasionally you may find one of their old t-shirts in your drawer. Then they leave, or they give you enough reasons for you to take your leave, and they're not just fond memories now, but relics from a simpler time. You pick one up and you turn it over in your hand and wonder, what was all of this for? How amazing it is to find a piece of history! but with discovery comes responsibility, and are you meant to catalog all of these things, write about the emotion they invoke and the surrounding context and the time which they date back to? What are the proper steps to be taken after finding such things, whether they be in your head or objects that survived? Survived what? There is so much to think about that you render the warm stirring of nostalgia to be grossly exaggerated, the pain involved outweighs any satisfaction; and so you regard it as bad move, something to be avoided at all costs. Escapism will get you far, and the days become fewer and father between when you will unearth your ancient heart. New nests are built, but the remains and the memories of those former homes are like callouses, like stains, like rotting leaves under the last of the winter's melting snow.
And like a cancer, you don't get to choose if they're malignant or benign.
No comments:
Post a Comment