Sentimental Reason
It's almost midnight where I'm at.
My hair is still drying itself out, while perpetually smelling like a mixture of herbs and essential oil. I should have been dozing off by now, considering that I have to get up before dawn. But, for the life of me, though my eyes are already droopy and my customary cup of tea has already been emptied, I could not fall asleep. Arcade Fire is accompanying me tonight, and their music is not the loudest thing in this house, neither is the clattering sounds of my brother preparing snacks. Not when nostalgia is currently making itself known, its presence is unwanted, though not unwelcomed.
It wraps itself around me, refusing to be shaken off like tentacles latching themselves on glass. The grip is gentle this time, unlike the preceding moments when it tried to rip me apart. There are charming plethora symphonies of dilated senses. I am pulled into fragments of days when I felt myself at peace with my surrounding: of greenery, walking ventures, cold summer, concrete roads, earth-tone buildings, achromatic wardrobes, foreign tongues, morning coffee and baked bread, tiny tea shops, and self-promise. Everything was real, and mine, to take in and to indulge in. The very definition of contentment.
There is certain kind of dullness after you have given yourself the pleasure of knowing what sort of circumstance that makes you most content. Especially when fate is not kind enough to let you enclosed within the environment. I am left with bubbling restlessness, making me tiniest bit impractical in living with the current time stream. If I could have it back, I would not have wasted it on seeking materialistic delights, however aesthetically pleasing they are. Instead, I would have bottle it all up by staying silent while marking every spot as mine, greedily taking in everything and pocketing them in the safe keep of my head for me to consume later, molecule by molecule. A selfish gesture, I know, but I scarcely have anything to claim besides the bones in my structure and the thumping heart.
Ah, there it is. Nostalgia, you were born out of sentimental reason. Out of envy, greed, and longing. Knock it out, now. It is unhealthy to be this way—to project loneliness and alienation as a ground reason to remember serenity. We cannot be enslaved by our own incapability of accepting reality. You are only an echo. A shadow of something I can only chase, never be with. A smoky rendition of a picturesque past. Truly, what you are showing is beautiful in its tranquility. But, I refuse to be a fool. Go home, now. Please do not worry, I will seek home and gratification.
It's almost two in the morning. Everything exists in murmurs and sighs and dimmed light.
My hair is still drying itself out, while perpetually smelling like a mixture of herbs and essential oil. I should have been dozing off by now, considering that I have to get up before dawn. But, for the life of me, though my eyes are already droopy and my customary cup of tea has already been emptied, I could not fall asleep. Arcade Fire is accompanying me tonight, and their music is not the loudest thing in this house, neither is the clattering sounds of my brother preparing snacks. Not when nostalgia is currently making itself known, its presence is unwanted, though not unwelcomed.
It wraps itself around me, refusing to be shaken off like tentacles latching themselves on glass. The grip is gentle this time, unlike the preceding moments when it tried to rip me apart. There are charming plethora symphonies of dilated senses. I am pulled into fragments of days when I felt myself at peace with my surrounding: of greenery, walking ventures, cold summer, concrete roads, earth-tone buildings, achromatic wardrobes, foreign tongues, morning coffee and baked bread, tiny tea shops, and self-promise. Everything was real, and mine, to take in and to indulge in. The very definition of contentment.
There is certain kind of dullness after you have given yourself the pleasure of knowing what sort of circumstance that makes you most content. Especially when fate is not kind enough to let you enclosed within the environment. I am left with bubbling restlessness, making me tiniest bit impractical in living with the current time stream. If I could have it back, I would not have wasted it on seeking materialistic delights, however aesthetically pleasing they are. Instead, I would have bottle it all up by staying silent while marking every spot as mine, greedily taking in everything and pocketing them in the safe keep of my head for me to consume later, molecule by molecule. A selfish gesture, I know, but I scarcely have anything to claim besides the bones in my structure and the thumping heart.
Ah, there it is. Nostalgia, you were born out of sentimental reason. Out of envy, greed, and longing. Knock it out, now. It is unhealthy to be this way—to project loneliness and alienation as a ground reason to remember serenity. We cannot be enslaved by our own incapability of accepting reality. You are only an echo. A shadow of something I can only chase, never be with. A smoky rendition of a picturesque past. Truly, what you are showing is beautiful in its tranquility. But, I refuse to be a fool. Go home, now. Please do not worry, I will seek home and gratification.
It's almost two in the morning. Everything exists in murmurs and sighs and dimmed light.