This is relatively long for a Tumblr post, especially on my account, so if you’d like to read a few long-winded paragraphs about nostalgia in regards to this post, you can read more.
I am sporadically overwhelmed by a heavy sense of nostalgia. I’d like to emphasize the heaviness of this sense; it’s similar to being coated in layer-upon-layer of completely drenched fleece blankets. My main qualm with this nostalgia is that it’s more of a faux-nostalgia than a longing for actual, tangible people or places or things that occurred in the past. That’s why this quote from The Vicious Kind really resonated with me. It resonated like the goddamn Liberty Bell must’ve resonated before it was cracked, only the Liberty Bell was hung securely inside of my skull. It’s odd to connect with something on such a level, almost to the point where you’re upset because you didn’t write the words or recite the line and won’t be recognized for feeling or thinking this soul-piercing thing that reverberated throughout your entire being.
This happens to me every so often, which obviously means that it’s not a unique experience and shouldn’t pack such a punch when it lands, but it does. This water-logged cloak, which, to be completely honest, always turns out to be made of make-believe bullshit, seems to swim around in the grey matter of the brain, shooting off signals in a way I can only fathom to be similar to how electrons fire off messages of agonizing pain when you slam your finger in a car door.
It’s like a mutating virus, finding these subdued or forgotten memories of a girl or a place or a weekend, which were tucked away for specific reasons, and it takes this girl or this place or this weekend and makes her pretty and it amazing and that time so great. But then it goes a step further; it takes the pretty girl and makes her unbelievably gorgeous. Her hair, her shoulders, her smirk. That glow. It fixes her teeth and forgets about when she treated you like a bothersome chore. It turns the amazing place into a breathtaking spectacle of fresh air and saturated hues, yet disregards the humid air, congested traffic, and complete lack of social interaction. It makes that weekend into the best weekend ever. 100%. You’ll never forget it.
It takes an honest person to admit that these things are all warped versions of the truth. An optimist looks at the situation and notes the fact that they may be warped, but at least they’re versions of the truth. They have a logical base. They spawn from fact. A pessimist, who I often associate with a realist, which may tell you something about me, looks at the situation and slaps you across the face. The pessimist in me just spoke up in reference to that last paragraph. It says she didn’t treat you like a bothersome chore, she treated you like absolute shit. There is your truth.
However you decide to interpret the situation, there’s no doubt that it happens. And sometimes when it happens, you don’t really mind. You’ve got nothing better going on. No girls with nice shoulders. It just snowed 31 inches in your crime-ridden hometown. You haven’t had a weekend away from home since your grandmother’s funeral. As unfortunate or unrealistic as it ultimately is, sometimes it’s nice to fall in love with those particular nouns over and over again, as you see them, as you remember them, and as you once saw them, letting all of the excess slide. Just for now.
