nostalgia

My dear, you never will understand time, will you? You're always trying to be the things you were, instead of the person you are tonight. Why do you save those ticket stubs and theater programs? They'll only hurt you later. Throw them away, my dear.

One is always at home in one's past...

Wendy__ house, unlike many in Cape Breton, had three floors, along with a basement and attic. Aside from Wendy__ bedroom, there was a laundry room. The dirty water in the sink would rush from the washer hose, bubbling up, threatening to overflow, but it never did. Next-door was a motel with a neon sign that read in turquoise and pink, __e have the best rates in town!_, but the ___ in __ates_ kept flickering on and off day and night so that every few seconds it would switch to, __e have the best rats in town!

I miss the thrill of your self-destructive heart that melts in the sun like chocolate, bittersweet and incandescent.

The problem with nostalgia is what we tend to do is only remember what you like and you forget the parts you didn't like,

The sixties are like a theme park to them. They wear the costume, buy their tickets, and they have the experience.

I have a habit of being an archaeologist of my own past, a sentimental collector of personal artefacts which may at first glance appear random, but each of which holds a unique significance. As the years pass me by, I find that the number of objects within my possession begins to accumulate. A torn map. A sealed letter. A boat full of paper animals. Each item encapsulates within itself a story, akin to an outward manifestation of my inner journey.

I had intended to visit the haunting ground of my school days. Subconsciously I wanted to be in a place where anxiety, responsibility and financial burden had yet to surface.

I understand, Bill. Because I tell myself a lot of stories to help me sleep at night. Stories about how Babe was my dearest friend, and I never betrayed her. Stories about how you and I had a great love, not just an occasional roll in the hay whenever she was out of town. Stories about how wonderful life was back then, when none of us told each other the truth, but so what? It was all so beautiful, wasn__ it? It was all so lovely and gracious. Not like it is now.

Nostalgia for the 20th century brain helps nobody.

The past is for learning from and letting go. You can't revisit it. It vanishes.

I wonder what it felt to move to a country where you didn't grow up. I had thought about that often since my sister got married. Do you become a character in a story native to that land, or do you, somewhere in your heart, want to return to your homeland.

I'm nostalgic for a better tomorrow.

And so it is inevitable that the day has come when we write about privacy with such nostalgia, analysing it as we would some unearthed fossil of a creature our human eyes had never fallen on.

A part of my appreciation for the good which moments bring has come from awareness and recognition. But it has also come from a correspnding sadness which arises from their passing. When something that can never quite be reenacted comes to an end (and all moments are that way), I feel a pensiveness within. This pensiveness gives my life a quality that might be best described as bittersweet. And those moments take on double meaning and richness - because they are here now - and because they will not always be.

It's not like I'm all into nostalgia and history, it's just that I can't stand the way things are now

In every age "the good old days" were a myth. No one ever thought they were good at the time. For every age has consisted of crises that seemed intolerable to the people who lived through them.

Each night I lie down in a graveyard of memories.