NOSTALGIA: The term nostalgia describes a yearning for the past, often in idealized form.[1] The word is a learned formation of a Greek compounds, consisting of νόστος, nóstos, "returning home", a Homeric word, and ἄλγος, álgos, "pain" or "ache". It was described as a medical condition, a form of melancholy, in the Early Modern period, and came to be an important topic in Romanticism.[1]
In common, less clinical usage, nostalgia sometimes includes a general interest in past eras and their personalities and events, especially the "good old days" of a few generations back recast in an idyllic light, such as the Belle Époque, Merry England, Neo-Victorian aesthetics, the US "Antebellum" Old South, etc. Sometimes it is brought on by a sudden image, or remembrance of something from one's childhood.
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I don't let a lot of people in to my world, and I don't often expose my truest self as I am a fiercely private, guarded person. Writing is therapeutic for me. I need to do it, and I like to blog...but always find myself going back and forth between how much or how little to express.
The definition above rings true. Especially the medical condition, pain and ache part.
I am only in my twenties and I feel like I've had so many lifetimes. Sometimes I think back on all of the places I lived, people I was and I cannot even believe it was me. I have the best life now. The best best best best dream life. I grew up to be what I wanted to be. I have the best man in the world. I live in a beautiful house. I do exactly what I wanted to do for a living. The past life versions of me would never have believed it. They wanted it, but who really and truly gets what they want? And I wonder, would I have been different if I knew that there wouldn't be anything to worry about? What if I could have told my younger self exactly how this would unfold...who to meet and who to avoid? The thing is...I love that I went through some tough things. I LOVE it. I love that I've had my heart absolutely shattered by people, by places. I love that it made me churn out dozens and dozens of poems that to this day when I read them I'm still impressed that they came out of me. http://deenamariepoetry.blogspot.com/
Problem, if that's what it is, is that I haven't written like that in years. I could only write when I was heartbroken. When I thought I'd never survive my devastation. Not that I want to change a thing about my life right now, no. I think I'm just a little bit of a masochist. Always have been and always will be.
For an artist there's a beauty in despair. I admit it. There are days when I kind of miss that feeling. and I would give anything...anything to relieve a day in my life. I would pick a day when I lived in NYC. When I was brand new, impressionable and not even yet Deena Marie. I want to remember what it feels like to be so shattered that you produce this:
PYRO
Here's to wine
Here's to roses
Here's to restaurant bathrooms
and the same green sheets
Here's to my sexy mistake
of fucking you to all of my favorite cd's
Here's to cocktails, red wine, couches and cooking
Here's to a late alarm ~ again
and sleeping 'til two ~ thanks
Here's to a hanging chinese lantern
green means calm
and aries means pyro
here's to the poems I can't stop writing about you
here's to a lounge, to a stairwell, to a corridor, to a street
every song is a soundtrack of you
and when I cant come without seeing your face
then here's to the house of yes
yes
yes
so what if you never screamed my name
I never said I love you ~ don't forget
so you be him and I'll be her
in every drop of alcohol there's poison
and every thorn pricks hard
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OR
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IT HURTS
it's hurting.
life's hurting me again.
i'm being pierced in the guts
with a memory. again.
of a past life
my present life
that was just lived,
just a moment ago
but feels like it never was.
i can't breathe.
my stomach's twisting into itself again.
there's such a thing as a parallel universe
because i've seen it.
because i've lived it.
i know a boy who sits in his apartment
just like i do
on a horrible schedule he passed on to me.
too afraid of the world to fall asleep in it,
and too overwhelmed by life to wake up early.
procrastinate through the hours
so muddy. so slow. so thick.
memorizing lines.
feel worthwhile
spend your time creatively
live an artists life.
but the tv is still on
and i'm still awake
it's a two hour difference
but our minds are still in tune.
not to each other but to this life.
i accidentally brought it back
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I wonder if I remember things accurately or if in fact I idealize my precious memories. Maybe I now remember them differently and they represent something that isn't in fact the truth. I don't know.
I know I am forever lost to romanticism. I romanticize everything around me. I am so sensitive to what is around me that at moments all I want is to take a leave of absence from me.
I once had my ora read. My strongest color was one in the rarest percentile. She said it must be "hard for me to exist in this plane". Boy, you can say that again.
Anyway... sometimes I literally suffer from my NYC nostalgia. It hurst. It pains and it aches.
Today just happens to be one of those days.
I've been listening to this song over and over (and no, I don't care to explain)
I'd like to leave it at that, but because there are all kinds of people and friends who read this and follow me online I have to make sure you know I'm still a very happy person and this is not new information.
There is also the type of artist who self sabotages for this very reason and clearly I know better.
If you look a few blogs back you'll see the one about coming across old diaries. I think it's nearing the time to start posting those excerpts I promised.
So. Since I can't go back in time for my 24 hour wish, the closest I can get is to occasionally give in to my nostalgia...
Deena Marie
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