There are people who would rather forget the identities they left behind. They are happier in the present, or in contemplating the future. But I am nostalgic, and always have been. It must be some quirk in my personality that always, I am happier in working out a way to return to something foregone, than to find merit and worth in what I have become. The result is never good enough, so I return to the parts, to find the broken link.
I began this day poring over old music. A friend recently confessed to me that her music rarely changes. I suppose she is listening now to what she listened to ten years ago, and before that, twenty years ago. There is a comfort in having music that stays with you. But I have thousands of songs saved to my computer. They represent the phases of my life, the thoughts that consumed me, the feelings that would not let me rest. It seems every time I wanted to change, I found music to guide me on. Or perhaps the music found me, a song that hinted at a new possibility, and so commenced my searching for a new identity. Whatever it was, I left behind the old songs, because their messages had grown tired. They reminded me of what was old and needed to change.
Now, as I listen to songs from long ago, I find they are markers of moments past. It is hard to recapture the unique power that inspired or the circumstance that compelled. When we attempt to recover that which was ardent, often, we find it burnt-out. It fills us with longing, though we do not know precisely for what it is we yearn.
So it is with these songs. They remind me of something, something I want back, but what is it? Who was I then? What was it in the notes, in the lyrics, that so perfectly reflected my sense of self? Who was that boy who found solace or hope or even despair in these songs? Is it possible that I was better off then, or is it simply the mind as it gilds and romanticizes that which it cannot entirely recall? Memory is imperfect, and when it is time to remember, if what we seek is not there, then we fashion something out of nothing. Always, it is a happier memory if it is one we must fabricate. For what good do sad memories do us? And this is why nostalgia confuses me. It is hard to see past the present, because it is so much in our faces. How can we get past what became our reality, to see what we hoped the reality would be?
Hastily, I attempted some semblance for the songs that sounded in my ear like the past. But I found my memories jumbled. So much that was distinct–or that seemed distinct–is now murky. There is no common theme. There is no thread that I can see, that I can again weave into a whole.
I think this is a long process: recovering the past, learning from it. It won’t work simply to try organizing songs, because songs are feelings, and feelings never make sense. They are naturally out of order. So perhaps I’ll start with one, and slowly step back, slowly remember. Perhaps that is the only way to lay bare the secrets that were once mine to keep. How strange to think that I can keep secrets from myself.