My Writing

The nostalgia of autumns past..

"I think it is all a matter of love: the more you love a memory, the stronger and stranger it is." ~Vladimir Nabokov

I look out the window, surprised at the spectacular crispness of the tree that stares back at me. It is covered faintly with snow, like a blanket that is surprisingly familiar to me. Young lovers walk by, surprised that they are alone on such a beautiful day. They kiss; a kiss so spectacular that the heaven's might as well have just opened, allowing rays of light to shine down on them. They continue their walk, into the future, unsure of the reality that surrounds them.

'Oh how I long to be them,' my soul silently screams. But I am held captive in here. I am a prisoner, trapped by endless paperwork and freshmen drama. Good-bye sweet singer. The memory of what once was, and my underappreciation for it. Memories are bittersweet; never remembered as the actual event. We add our biases to our memories, and put on our rose-colored glasses to view them. I love them despite.

I remember when I was in love; although it was not a deep kind. It was immature, based solely on what was said. Perhaps I even felt something. I do not remember. I do remember the first time I laid eyes on him though. Electric. Intense. Shock. Nervous. Those feelings; come back to me! I need these feelings once more! Oh memories, do not fail me now! You are the only possessions that are really mine! Do not forget me, memory, and I will not forget you.