my photo albums are a graveyard of everyone i've ever known

if death ever decides to skip me, nostalgia will finish the job.

one of my mother’s favourite ways to entertain a guest was to whip out our old photo albums and walk them through glimpses of our life. while this was something i thoroughly enjoyed, i wondered what it was like being the outsider looking in. to them a photo of my family having dinner in a restaurant in 2008 was just that— a night out in 2008. how could they know just before that picture was taken, my aunt had given me a death-stare for dipping my fingers in the glass of water? how would they have known that two hours before choosing this restaurant, my uncles were frantically searching for me in a mall after my mom lost me in a crowd? all these stories exist behind isolated frames, and yet no descriptive elaboration will ever match the simple feeling of having experienced that moment firsthand.

what once started as child me cautiously turning through the pages of these albums, eventually became teenage me mindlessly scrolling through my photos app. the medium may have changed but the sentiment remains. revisiting a picture from a cherished memory is a lot like visiting the grave of a loved one. you’re choked by emotion as waves of the good, bad, and unfortunate moments you lived through wash you over. you drown in retroactive realisation as you remember that day being the last time your best friend held that title. you know returning to your gallery is bound to drain your tear ducts but you do it anyway. why?

at every grave rests a memory, an experience that ended too soon, or didn’t end soon enough. at every grave lies a relationship that could’ve been salvaged but was neglected. at every grave lies a part of you that you’ve buried away along with the people who you blame for the way you are. for your growth.

i hope that when i take my last breaths, my life flashing before my eyes looks like what speedily scrolling through my gallery does. i just want enough time to look at everyone who made me who i am but not so much time that i begin wishing to defy nature’s order of eternal rest. albeit grim, the unambiguous essence of death is mercy. but nostalgia, under its guise of fond reminiscence ties you down and forces you to find the joy in your past anguish. because the very essence of nostalgia is misery and it is that misery that binds you to everyone and everything you think you know.

this could be a rather pessimistic take on something as blissfully enchanting as nostalgia but sometimes, you must publicly admonish the drug before you feel the high enveloping you in a warm, welcoming embrace.

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