I think I know why people get nostalgic. I think I know why the past is so appealing, calling us over the hills, over the water… the past is certain. It’s a stone we can throw, hold in our hands and trace its riverstone curves and call “interesting” when really we mean “biomorphic,” or trace its jags and say it’s “pretty” when we mean “shot through with impurity and inclusions.”
The future, you see, weighs nothing. It feels like a stomach ache, like bad mussels eaten on a bad date. You never know. You can’t know.
Whereas the past, though it hit you on the head and made you bleed, the past you can put in your pocket, lob the memories at the younger generation who will mock you for your poor aim.
At least that’s something.