Ties to Endearing Nostalgia


Some of you might know I carry a thought book. Yes, a thought book – not a journal nor a diary but a small little notepad full of thoughts both cynical and reflective. It’s a handy tool to which some psychologists might say contain putative results of positive outcome. I’d have to agree with them.

Here are some of the thoughts I’ve had in the past:

“I started as a dog. I turned into a tree. Now I’m a snake.”

“Politics only arise in a social dynamic where there is something important and relevant to gain. That’s why those who are exulted eventually fail. Arrogance kills. Social dynamics are everywhere. Gain is a chosen treasure and path to pursue.”

“Swallowing pride in the right timing… That will be my greatest weapon.”

Looking back at it now, some of these thoughts are so cynical that it becomes humorous. I picture a tiny immature child named Napoleon stomping and jumping while yelling, “Me! Me! Me!”

But in reality, they sort of come and go like spontaneous trains without a route. I try to catch them before they permanently departure into the abyss of forgetfulness by writing them down… half of the time I succeed. The other half persist like bland white walls.

Something big happened the other night, though. I went to a casual event at an urban farm – yes, they exist and it’s hipster heaven – and they played a song that I hadn’t heard in years. (Olam Chesed Yibaneh or We Will Build This World From Love if you’re interested). It was a camp song and given the scenery of a burning fire pit with huddled warm bodies around it, I was brought back in many ways.

These are the thoughts I wrote down following that event:

“I raise my head to see a reflection of myself in the BART window. Under the light facial hair and slight structural changes I begin to formulate what I used to be. But nostalgia draws me in, nearer and nearer to this oh so familiar feeling… and suddenly, without any transition or warning, am forced to witness the power of 68 variations of love forming within the seems of my memory.”

“Naked yet unafraid, this foggy abyss seems to encapsulate every corner of my body. The purity of hopeless romanticism poses advantages to all defenses I might have had before, for these notions are not becoming of me nor do they fit what I am.”

“And suddenly, I’m melted from my solid form into warm reviving water; the nurturing welcome lures me forward and with this, I am free. Look at all the paths before me! I can wander paths into other paths into other paths into other paths. Infinite and overwhelming, I’m somehow back in this reality I thought didn’t exist anymore.”

My thoughts ran amok as they proliferated within every mental fiber of my being. It raced as every possible trigger of emotion shot through my body. With a combination of at least several mental agendas, I felt pulled in every direction by some sort of longing for the past; A bitter sweetness for a time with less beguiling figures and more youth-driven ambition had dwell.

That song, Olam Chesed Yibaneh came from summer camp, thus I relished among the euphoria of these memories:

I think of the alpine tower where I conquered my fear of heights. I think of the brotherhood of bunk mates and all the dirty jokes we raved over. I think of all the egregious critters that somehow made it into our beds. I miss the prank wars. I miss the volunteering. I miss the singing and dancing. I miss the trees and breeze and smell or horse manure for some reason. I miss my first romance from that camp… How I will never forget the high cheek bones she had when she smiled… I miss the high towering hill that I’d hike up every other day. I miss the live performances on Fridays that I got to partake in. I miss the average food. I miss the casual counselors. I miss the legendary stories and names that reside in those parts. And finally, there’s a good fraction of my emotion who misses what I used to be…

Today, I’m a man whose greatest hopes and desires tend to by stymied by darker thoughts. I mean… I do live a great life. I posses a wide variety of friends here in California and beyond. I have a loving family who never hesitate to support me when I need it the most. I am enrolled in a fairly decent film program providing me with a great arcanum of daedal skills.. I’m fairly spoiled and privileged, I’ll have to admit. But as I sift forward into the untouched future, inching my way faster and faster into the paths I’ve hungrily sprinted towards, I tend to lose sight of my greatest keepsakes.

And from this thought process, I wrote down a truth that I must hold onto forever:

“Yes, love is our most important resource but nostalgia is our more precious as love fuels it.”


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