Nostalgia Sickness

4 Jan

Bowled over with nostalgia, I’ve been winded by the past.

I can’t breathe because I’m retching with the honeyed taste of memories, sickly sweet and fragrant, but hazy as they reach the pinnacle in their misty state. A night drifting by in a cartoon cloud, materialising like magic into a brain drenched in the pictures of the past, present, future, or what they might have been, are, will be.

I try to speak but I can’t get the sound out, memories invading my mouth, mangling my voice until strains its way out, saying “do you remember when?”, and then not quite managing to convey that ten out of ten, conjure up the full picture, insert you into the scene, as though you might have been, there, with me. My today is flooded with the thick heavy paste of nights gone by, loaded on like tar. When I raise my feet to move I find I can’t lift them off the ground, seeped in cement they stick too firmly to the slabs of the past, high heels trying to make marks if they could only just not hold so fast.  Connected violently to that which has just gone by, that which was once just a shadow in the corner of my eye until it rushed, rushed, rushed up on me, looked straight through me as I walked straight through it, knew, did it, felt, and emerged out the other side, and forgot to shake it off as I brushed messed up hair, and took anxious breathes.

And a result it still follows me around, the rusty jewel in the crown – I wear it like a tiara, symbolising the giggles, indecipherable riddles of what they call the yesteryear, taunting the tears of today with the laughter of a past which hasn’t done what, squinting, we thought was written on the tin. Time for new glasses then, to correct the triple vision, amend the indecision into an optician’s dream and the nightmare of nostalgia – clarity.

hazynights

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