This nostalgy… a perverse emotion, that of a red autumn leaves or a spring trickle. A many a guy had been defeated by her comforting graces, for when she embraces she holds with arms that have heaven in hands… the hands of Goddess of life itself keeps the grip on our hearts like a vociferous beast with gentleness of a pure maiden
What is the old village if not history or the inception of one's life? The account of all the nescessary steps for existing as an individual, from the cradle to the out of it, all the things we come to remember in our reckoning. Something that is old and good, that serves well the purpose, that fails to do unright, that is what this sublime, teethering saddness, that is too easy to dismiss as frivolous and too difficult to challenge
That I will have as my adversary. This feeling I will have as mortal enemy for that it does me more harm than good, makes me remember things of the great time and forget the moment, this moment in which I purported to live a life that is at least not half so bad. And yet, in this moment of nostalgia, I forget it all, my emotional memory gets wiped clean and gets replaced with the imaginary fictions of some approximations of how it mustve felt so good back then when something was… as if it is right now something wasnt
I shall fight this nostalgia with any means available to me. I will spare no breath, to drown this feeling in the water I will not hesitate, for that everyone will be a fierce beast when faced with unprovoked infringements, superflous attacks of the past on the present, dillution of life as it is. There is nothing good in this feeling, there is nothing good in what it does
From this old village it has the beginning. To reminiscence of the village itself, to be contained in it, to never look outside the old house. To stand by the windowsill and wonder if the life ever moves forward, claiming in airquotes that everyting is still on the outside. When sun changes the moon and vice versa, it is not that the natural states of things changed, it is that I in my perception, in my receiving of the sensory data, can tell, what was before and after, or, the state of things as they are in the current moment. Destroying history at the spot and allowing the nostalgy to exist in its unabashed, unapologetic form. The thesis is thus, it is not that our physical self doesnt change, it is that this change matters little, as the real change is hidden, s
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