Nostalgia is a bridge that must be crossed so that there is a view over the shoulder.
One does not know of childhood until we’re looking at our feet, with a little distance,
And realise how little we have preserved and how much we left behind as we get older.
Fall leaves pool by our ankles as the rakes of time resists remembrance
And the fiery palette of autumn appears dull in the photographs. Eternity
Cannot be preserved in the resin of pixels or between the pages of an encyclopaedia,
Else it becomes brittle like pressed flowers. Childhood must fade into a dream and lose clarity
As the myopia of age blunts its vivid edges. All the depiction in media
Fails to capture the sharp scent of seasonal chill, or the crackling of leaves slipping under my shoes.
It feels like forever since I’ve crossed over here, and I only know and love the retreating rear views.
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