Hopeless?

I get attached to certain things. Abstract ideas as opposed to physical things. I’m in love with ideas and words and all things ethereal. Images and  scents are seared into my memory. I have a plethora of sense memories that transport and enthrall me. Life’s too short to be fixated on the concrete. I think my generation is made of dreamers. People stuck in an all to real present who are inexplicably nostalgic for times they never experienced. I don’t trust people who only think about tomorrow. Mind you it’s also dangerous to wax poetic about yesterday. But I do it anyway. We all know you’re the healthiest in the here and now. But things that are unhealthy always taste better.

I’m a cynical romantic. Hell just look at my last post. A collection of scenes that are hopelessly romantic and saturated in jaded wit and nuance. But people would call being a “cynical romantic” an oxymoron (a word I adore) but it makes perfect sense to me. It’s someone who longs for the world to be played out like a choreopgraphed dance. Our lives woven together, an ebb and flow that plays out with grace, melody and perfect timing. There’s tension but there’s an understated euphoria that makes the pain worth it. If you will it, it will happen. You will find them and they will find you. But the operative word in my description is longs … because the world doesn’t work like that and we all know it. We all want the right people to stumble strategically across our path and bring a smile to our face… fate is a fanciful concept that even the most cynical people wish was true to some degree. Case in point:

Pulp is as cynical as you can get. But Jarvis always sings with that cheeky sweetness. It tows the line quite carefully between satire and earnestness … they’re romantics jaded by modern life.

But back to what I was babbling on about before I got sidetracked by my meandering and equally shallow introspection. Where was I? Ah right: Nostalgia. Waxing poetic. I have a catalogue of memories that are mere flashes that bring about a longing and pang for a time not muddied with the complexities of all of the tomorrows to come.

These bits of emotional minutiae that I fixate on are dangerous. It makes you weary of reality and prone to pain. When you cling to the past you’re more vulnerable. You can’t trust yourself. Regret and disappointment occur a hell of a lot easier. And those second guesses erode you from the inside out.

But damn all of those days you’ve had, all of those memories that wash over you like a lilac scented breeze in May, they’re potent and they’re as real and important as anything. You just can’t let them consume you…one must keep in mind that memories are really just mirages of human nature. With that in mind you can live for today rather then long for the days that were.

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