Nostalgia
I found myself reflecting quite a bit last night. I mean that I spent time looking back at the past, not that I found a way to repel light. I spent an hour clearing out my cupboard of clothes I either don’t wear or have never worn. Some of which were apparently bought under the influence of magic mushrooms. A pair of achingly tight purple pantaloons that I have no recollection of buying went straight in the bin liner. I think they would’ve looked quite good on a nemesis of Batman’s, but just not for me at this point.
But the whole experience had me looking back at the past and pining for things. I became quite nostalgic. I’ve never been nostalgic. And now I miss that. I’ve always pitied people who are overly sentimental for a framed photograph or that particular pair of socks. Like they have enhanced meaning or value. It doesn’t matter that you wore the socks the fateful day you first met (or fingered, depending on how you rank life’s events) your ex-girlfriend. They were just keeping the cold out and smell in as best they could, same as any other day.
But now apparently I am one of this sorry crew. I threw out a cardigan I could barely look at for sobbing about the good times I’d had in it. It was pathetic. I’d genuinely got this far thinking I had a heart of dust, then I find out my chin goes all wobbly when I look at something woollen I wore on a day when quite probably very little happened to me. If it’s so special then why isn’t hanging in a cupboard made of ornate golden pillars and sheets of ruby, that I bought with all my Euromillions cash I won the day I wore it to buy a lucky dip. Why? Cause it’s not magic. It’s a cardigan. To be exact, it’s a dis-guarded cardigan. It’s sitting at the bottom of a bin-liner outside Upper Street Oxfam, waiting to be bought by a person it will have exactly bugger-all of a positive effect on. Having said that, despite a couple of slight holes, it was quality knitwear. I miss it.
