“Remembrance of things past is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were.” ― Marcel Proust
I was struck with so many memories as I drove through Rockhampton the other day. Memories of accidentally mushing gum into my cousins hair on a trip back from the salt mines. Memories of being a young boy and thinking that the big satellite dish on one of the hills belonged to a man who had exceptionally TV reception and a big ass flat screen. The waves of nostalgia washed over me and it was like I was a kid, receding into the surf and then being winded and pushed back to shore. (Which happened around the same age but different location)
Nostalgia seems kind of useless. Being reminded of better days is both rewarding and depressing. It doesn’t show who you are or how you got here. It just shows what you were like. It is most likely not even accurate. But an imperfect memory can be just as perfect, if only a moment. If you can slip away from this world for just one moment, even if it hurts to come back it is immeasurably rewarding.