One thing I know is that when you’re sad for no reason, your mind finds one. Nostalgia is the same. I start to miss things. I miss being sixteen, and walking around my little town late at night with my friends. I miss it being totally empty because everyone else had to work. I miss the way the streetlights seemed to be shining just for us. I miss feeling like the streets were a stage, and that we were creating a show. I miss feeling like the air was watching. I miss the breaths I took. I miss the safety of high school. I miss the predictability of the day. I miss the inconsequential hours, the smell of the halls, the daydreaming. I miss the kids in my class. I remember thinking that everyone was so unique – so many of them made me laugh. I remember thinking that there was no way that they would grow up to be just like everyone else. I was wrong – too many lost their spark. I’m nostalgic for the field outside my after-school club. I thought I had found the meaning of life. I thought that the whole point was to lie in the greenest grass and make shapes out of the clouds. I miss believing it was that simple – Who knows? Maybe I was right. I miss the women that broke my heart – and I really wish I didn’t. I miss some women who never got the chance – I miss what could have been. Sometimes I miss things on other people’s behalf. Sometimes I meet sad people, and I miss their happiness. I assume they were happy, once. Sometimes I miss the dreams they gave up. Sometimes I miss the person they used to be. I think that’s why I need to be a writer. Because there are some things I refuse to miss. I don’t want to miss feeling like I have a purpose. I don’t want to miss feeling like my life could surprise me. I don’t want to miss feeling like I could say something that matters. And even: I don’t want to miss feeling like I matter. It’s all relative. None of us matter really, but I like the feeling. I don’t want to miss it – I know I would, a lot. And I really, really don’t want to be someone I’m not because I don’t want to miss myself. I know what that’s like, it’s the worst feeling in the world. Sometimes I miss the sun, even when it’s shining. I’m not sure why that is. Maybe one day I’ll understand, and I’ll write about it. Maybe other people miss it too. Maybe I’ll be remembered for figuring it out. Maybe I’ll be missed.
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