Nostalgia

And oh, the feeling of being able to love someone! Sweet, enchanting, ebullient, and whatnot. The warm feeling of being somnolent. I wonder if love comes the same every day, every moment. As a brother looks at his little sister dancing along the music he composed; a dad managing to sneak peek at his son while he so tiresomely stood late nights to compose the same music; a wife who waited by the bed for her husband who was busy making silent conversations with his soon-to-leave-for-college son; the dog who patiently waited as he wiggled around the corridor while the little sister cried at her brother’s departure. So solemn, isn’t it? Moments. Terrifying, and yet, fulfilling. People know about departures, don’t they? But they get attached anyway. To places, to things, to people, and to time. The worst attachment of all. Nostalgia. Pretty common word, eh? People yearn to go back to the time they felt good, they yearn to go back and reminisce about life back then with the utterly important newfound wisdom of today. Or maybe, just forget about the present time once and for all. Just let it be and be happy as life was back then. Oh, how much we humans try to hold onto the past. Whether it be the songs that take them to childhood, the clothes from their childhood, the little pieces of cards, the unsalvageable handwriting in the diaries, the god-knows how old peacock feathers inside the old books, the books itself, the accessories, and the best of all, the photographs! The photographs of little you on a seesaw, with pants borrowed from your brother–which you know you didn’t borrow at your approval; it was a mind game your mother had played all along, a pink hat, the little gazes and the universal pose of peace sign without knowing what the sign meant. The photographs of you on a bike, toothless at the front – the black cavity in front of your mouth bulging on the picture like a dark void, and yet the miraculous smile. The photographs of you with the shortest hair which you begged your parents for and then regretted – your face said it all. The photographs with the purple sweater which you had managed to burn down randomly on a random Wednesday; the photographs in front of the TV whose remote you had managed to wash and leave for drying at the veranda; the photographs of the dance shows you did as a child, and the cameraman knowingly took the photo at the worst moment where you look like an owl screeching over to its home and realizing it doesn’t even have a home; the photographs of you and your brother where both of you look like you were instructed not to laugh for the photo– which was so not true. The yearly albums and the photographs, and you feel your childhood ricochets. At least in your vivid memory, it does. But the more you look into it, the more the moment gets in, there is a fleet of realization, isn’t there? Do you have the same love for the world you had when you were a kid?

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