Nostalgia is a topic I have both written and not-written about, frequently. Perhaps, growing up as a third culture kid, I’m accustomed to pay particular attention to the beginnings and ends as a measure of my own self, relative to the shifting landscapes.
Time and Home are both mischievously present in most of my poems, whether visibly or not. Sometimes, I wonder whether, through writing, I conjure the scent of the past or merely imagine it. When moving between the city I had my heart attached dearest to to a nearby, smaller city, I had no shame in recording myself read my terribly written poem that had mentions of Neverland from Peter Pan.
I would hate to bore you with the sentiments of the poem in entirety, especially since it was written by an even more sentimental me at a time when moving a few hundred miles in the same country felt like an irrevocable heartbreak. Then, I moved to a new country with a newer irrevocable heartbreak and it has been another three years, since. I find being nostalgic a state I write from. In the first year of settling here, I would miss the laughter that was unique to me and my close friend that no one could recognize, much less recreate. She felt the same. Eventually, you find other moments in which laughter finds and startles you. Nostalgia affords you that luxury.
Again and again, a wistfulness compels me to share these little, distant memories, to bring them to surface for the tranquility of someone who has only words. But the unwritten grows in maturity, too. When it is finally written, it has a larger portion of all that you are, all that troubles you, and all that your heart listens out for.
A magical creature in a sequel of a film I watched yesterday had matured so profoundly, he practically spoke to me through the television screen in his musical number:
Growing up means adapting,
Puzzling at your world and your place
Olaf was right; absolutely everything makes sense.
Until next time.