my nostalgias are usually at once very small, specific, materially-focused, yet acutely inarticulate. a song will remind me of the way the light was in a certain room at a certain time of a certain day (which certain often eludes me), how the air felt, etc.; sensory minutiae. sometimes these details aren’t even from particularly good or important periods in my life—it really is just that specific moment that i’m feeling pangs for. which makes sense, i guess: i cherish life in tiny bites like that. i can’t really think of a good “period” (sometimes i almost can, but i think that’s more of a “better than…”), so the high points—the points where i’m really honestly thoroughly glad to be alive, and in that exact place and time—are mostly very mundane, minor; a conversation, a meal, even sometimes nothing in particular, just sitting around alone. when i think back to these moments, as clearly as i can remember them, there’s usually a feeling underlying them—something really nebulous; i can’t even get a clear sense of it in my head, let alone explain or describe it—and i think that sensory focus is my brain trying to save it, preserving it in as rich concrete detail as possible, documenting it, but the feeling itself, that i’m (trying to be?) nostalgic for, is something that just can’t be captured. it occurs, then it’s gone, like a wisp of smoke. (i don’t mean this to sound as much on the verge of some metaphysical notion as i fear it might.) (or is this how nostalgia works for everybody? maybe i’m just straining to be philosophical about this.) i’d like someday to achieve a situation—a home, i guess, in the broader sense of the word—which i can later be nostalgic for.