Waxing Nostalgic

At times when soft music plays, when faint whistles blow, or perchance when spring blooms dance on the gentlest breeze, the midst of the moment is so entwined with radical recollection, one cannot see the present without glimpsing the past. It is in this moment of solitude and complexity, wrought with déjà vu, wrapped in enduring peace, unexplainable in words, yet unmistakable in mind that one’s soul bridges the gap of reflection and reality if only for an instant.

These moments have consumed me like galactic stars consume the wilderness sky, challenging the darkness for a stronghold on the night. They come in waves triggered by seasonal tsunamis washing up memories oftentimes forgotten. They feel like nebulous dreams (View), brilliant flashes of light (View), family togetherness and loss (View), and friendships old and new (View). They often overwhelm when they embark leaving lasting impressions of warmth, familiarity, and happiness.

Nostalgia is my muse when warm air lifts the winter’s wrath, when the flower fills the yellow field, when ravens return to blacken skies. It is my muse when yesteryears feel like yesterdays, when sidewalks lead to nothingness, when shadows frame the setting sun. Nostalgia is merely a passing pilgrim content with brief encounters and subtle manipulations leaning on the histories of men. While triggers may differ, the history is life, past to present, and the visit welcome, like that of distant island in a sea of tranquility. Just a thought!