Something of the night wind's whistle
made me remember what he once said--
a stranger's pain in grave admission
of his love wishing he were dead
and in my head the words, they flitted
colours like the sounds they made
where red meant stop not love or passion
but green meant growth not go ahead

Exploring Nostalgia

I love late-night trips to fetch small items whose luxury is often mistaken as necessity. In particular, the procurement of milk evokes strong nostalgia. I am reminded of childhood sleepovers and carefree summers, where the urge to bake at 2am would overcome us and the trips became as much a tool to strengthen friendships as a symbol of ever-growing freedom. We'd talk all night as earthy scents from the open window mingled with the scent of rising muffins and jolted our displaced memories into immediate thought.

I love when the rain falls so heavily that the windows are slick with water and the trees and flowers become abstract distortions. I love leaning into the window and feeling the aura of moisture and coldness on my skin without actually touching the glass. I feel like I'm in a watercolour painting, where an untaught and heavy hand has driven the colours to viciously attack each other and bleed deeply on the canvas battlefied. I feel the draw of romanticized passion and violence without ever having to suffer true bruises.

I love objects with deep histories; that belonged to someone else before they fell to me. When I run my hand over woodgrain, or polished stone, or cool steel, or velvety plush, I love to feel not only the differential sensation along my fingertips but also the ghostly touches that preceded mine. When the surface of the material reflects what past eyes have stored in their keeping, my heart feels lighter for learning another's story without polluting the silence.

I connect with objects because of their unbiased ability to capture emotion. With paper, I remember the secrets I've shared; with glass, the sadness I've experienced; with wire, my frustrations; with beads and thread, my restlessness; with photographs, my inspiration. In the same way that I love translating thought to poetry--so that others can feel what I am feeling without ever knowing my mind--I also love reading old words. It comforts me to know that there exists a vessel where humans can be both exposed and hidden; where we can record images of our pasts, without having to taint the actual scenes with the inaccuracy of biography.

Nostalgia is sweet and heavy like cheesecake and irish coffee. I have been nibbling and sipping for months now and the nausea is finally setting in.

a stranger spoke a secret,
and i knew not what to do,
i said 'i can only listen--
but the choice is up to you'