Tell me of times past

Dear Wilfred,

I have this reoccurring nostalgia. I dream about my old apartment in the Upper East side. That sounds like a fancy spot in New York but it is a humble apartment in Johannesburg, South Africa.

In a dream- like state, I walk down the stairs and through the halls.

I think back to the feelings that I had, the way that things would smell in different areas. I feel the sun come through the huge living room doors and the breeze from the world’s smallest balcony. I remember how safe I felt in bed watching the sun rise. 

There are so many memories of a life I lived for 26 years. Such deep pain that holds the whole experience in view. It was here that I drank and took pills every day after work just to stop thinking.

This strange place with all this nostalgia stopped feeling like home. It had nothing more to give me but could take everything again and again. In a sick way, I wish that I could go back just for one more day. Feel it all again. Drive my car around. I named him Christian. Go to the clothing shops that I spent way too much time and money in. Breathe in the air with that stench that is engrained into my DNA as being the smell of the past. Something I long for but also desperately never want to see again.

The time that I forgot to love myself.

So much has happened since then. 

You are in this version of the past. Sitting in your chair reading the newspaper. I love every detail of your house. The reminder of it yanks on my heart strings. I wished I had paid more attention as if it were the last time. 

The sands of time cannot be turned back. This is perhaps a good thing.

Goodnight.

All my love,

A