Memories are strange things; one ticket for the private screening of my life. That is, what i can remember of it. The funny thing is i will remember the best and the worst but the mundane things, the things that make up the bits in between, i won’t. I won’t remember having spaghetti on the 23rd of august, or the face of that boy i once kissed; their lips along with their name become a blur, just as that night has. It’s strange how a faded memory in my eyes is the most remembered night from another’s. It’s strange how i can think back to some nights, almost as if i am there once more. It’s strange how now, today, may not even become a memory to be forgotten; too mundane to maintain in the jumble of memories that remain inside this head of mine. It is strange.
being nostalgic is a weird feeling, it’s like you’ve been transported into a different time. even if it’s just a smell of grandma’s rice pudding that you haven’t smelt since you were seven years old. or the colours of a old mural you used to have. it literally doesn’t matter what it is. sometimes you don’t even know where it’s coming from, but it’s there, hiding behind the veil of our senses. but when you do know, oh, when you do know. that’s when it really feels like you’re reliving your childhood. well, it’s the closest we’re going to get to time travel, may as well enjoy it.