The original event standing stuck, straight up and down like a stick in the mud of a diminishing past, slowly moving further and further away from us. And we’re just left with the faint impressions that over time tell us less and less.
Pretty soon all that’s left is the memory of the memory, a reminiscence of at one point reminiscing. I remember that I felt, but don’t remember how it felt to feel it.
A parade of images, massaged and manipulated.
The bad becomes worse.
The good becomes better.
The hill taller, the passions deeper.
The insurmountable more gallantly surmounted.
This is why nostalgia is so dangerous. It was never actually like how you remember it.
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