I don’t do nostalgia.
It wasn’t better then.
I hated life a while ago.
It improved, failed, improved again.
That was a bad body I had.
I was a bad, bold mistake.
My mother was a bad cook.
My father wasn’t wise. Or maybe
I’m the dumb one and my taste buds
got too numb to feel comfort.
The music was the music.
Full of promise, most unfulfilled.
Some came true then other songs
came along and made those wrong.
The movies were rude and crude
and shifted little, if you look around.
My old books smell as musty
as the ideas therein.
Even the sun was dim back then
in exactly the way it’s dim now.
The only thing then had over now
was the feeling that hope had a point.
I can’t live on that full memory
when I bite down on tinfoil today and every day.
It hurts exactly the way it always has.
I remember that and only that from my youth.
Hope was a luxury then,
a luxury now.
Go on living. Bite down. It’ll hurt. It always does.
That’s the lesson of the past:
you will only remember how the world can glow
once the agony ends.