That feeling of need and want an curious emptiness hits again and again in so short a time. Each hint of ancient rhyme or simply older-than-me time-passer gives a new jolt of pain at not being able to touch it. Each childhood game offers another chance at being young.
But, at the same time, youth will not be regained by an attempted session of remembrance; things will not be exactly the same and so the dream will disappoint and all will come tumbling in an arch of Jenga bricks.
But as soon as one game finishes lazily, another catches the eyes and sends a little chill of anticipation down your spine. Goose bumps rise only to be rested again as childhood retreats back to its toy chest rest home when this new game does not satisfy.
Games are given up, since they cannot fulfill, and words are turned toward instead. With a savage hope to find the realms of time inside a twisted phrase. And, although the phrase gives a shiver and a pang, it falls to the ground and shatters; breaks apart into words and letters and vague black-and-blue lines. And then it’s gone.
The game and the word have both failed, so now, perhaps, the art. Imperfect people painted so perfectly skewed. Tones and shades ready to make good their unspoken promises of colour, but soon fading back to black on white with grey in a close second. High cities and deep streams and hidden lands beneath frosted seas; things that could never be seen outside of a padded cell without the aid of a sketch. But, although the picture pleases for a time, it does not feed the want enough and we must move on. Art has failed us.
Now music takes the stage, flowing out and up and left like the sea on deaf ears. A frantic search for a favorite song from long ago and then the relief of finding it. Let the music and the rhythm beat through you. Then again when it finishes. Like the addict, keep restarting your song again and again until it’s been drained of all of its sweet remembrance. Then it falls flat into a world of Now out of its bubble of Yesterday.
Music has failed, so now turn to games again; an endless cycle continuing onward forever. A quest for the means to stop time and then reverse it; to get back to when memory is fuzzy and things are thought better. But that’s really all nostalgia is, in the end: Memory.
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A Cool Legend to Know
Mordovian circuits to find naught wrong with a world of rainy-day promises towards children of every single age. Magical wing-writes to teach in tongues of roller coaster lightning rods. Long-ago-men written on cavern walls in painted years. Nation’s legends to teach, instruct, and water plain wishes whispered between bedtime prayers.
A play wright of obvious benefactors o the town of Christmas play. Daylight through a broken window to toss a shadow of french vanilla sing-song. Frost across the window in a tiny taste of childhood breakfast cereal. Who could wish a better promise that that made behind the screen of hushed tones a long way beyond time for sleepy-bye.
A magic tongue of icicles to talk in tones of secret languages and broken codes in order to be better understood. Gibberish is more kindly known than all the strange deviants of English.
Procrastinating Poet 