Nostalgia Is But A Brute



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Nostalgia Is But A Brute


A breeze passes with gentle intentions. An aroma pursues the breeze with nostalgia, lifting me to a memory long ago. I knead it like dough, though I know I should let it go. For it is but a memory that floods with woe. It is an echo, left to the hollow lands of my mind, never to regrow.

For those lands are the shattered, the broken, the lands that left me narrow in sight. Pecking at my soul like dead flesh for a crow. And though it may be a beautiful and birght, its drips of sorrow and lies with tragedy.

And in this memory of this blissfully painful scent. I tiptoe, upon a scenario, I swore to never bring breath, as if I owe. And nostalgia, is but a false euphoria, a placebo. Leading one to a rodeo of emotional harrow, clambering to elegance, like the notes of a crippled piano.

But I am foolish upon this memory, for I chamber it to my life like romance, call it my Romeo. And in it I die, I fall bleak to the overflow of what no longer is. As my soul lingers at the tragedy like an addiction to chaos. Never sure of what is, but drawn by curiosity of the eye. Like the strange interest one is, to the paintings of Picasso.

Tragic is it, for one to compare memories to a soul destined to his own afflictions? Polio of the mind, can nostalgia bring, sweet but bitter in its touch. And it brims with graceful winds and bring aromas that delight one in false harmony. Though the view may be but of a catastrophic afterglow.

Leading one to believe that comfort lies in the forgotten, the empty halls of the past. Nostalgia, peering with bleak eyes, bringing one to be hypnotized into a yearning for the no more. And though you may ask it to never speak, nostalgia has no ears, no concern for peace, no sense of time.

It will follow and be, mono in its intent, a hero it tries to perceive to be. But malice is its existence and a brute, is it upon the soul. It will burrow if one lives in the shallow view of a melting snow. It will act as a fresh breeze to your concerto.

But it is but a mosquito, never wavering to take what is yours. Feeding from the internal and burning to the atmosphere of the physical. Sway yourself from its unforgiving and relentless mission. Bring much bravado to your existence, and wallow not in what is no more. Do not be me, do not be a fool, and act as if it to be, aloe for the soul.

What memories have you held onto, that you know should be forgotten like the leafs of fall? 

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