Nostalgia and those lonely bits of identity

This autumn past a lonely thought occurred to me. It was a memory and many memories, but no memory in particular. And these vague memories had a lonely theme: they were vastly unshared.

What a sad thought that I cannot share these memories with my lover, my husband, in a way that he can know them, too. It is more to say than those memories shared through common experience are still experienced individually to each mind. They are still shared.

No. These memories from autumn last were memories that I can only share with him through stories, but stories leave one to one’s own imagination and the teller’s vision will only cary so far. And at the time, this thought made me sad.

So many memories of so many experiences that molded the me my husband knows. And I shall never know his stories the way he knows them, either. Should we? I don’t think so. The us came from my I and his I. Forward we shall share in memories, but they do not erase those before, nor should they!

But those memories. So many lonely unshared memories. Beautiful memories. Terrible memories. Quirky and foolish memories. Those are mine to carry alone. And when I reminisce, when nostalgia takes it’s place on my mind, those memories feel like a weight that only I can carry for no one else has the right.

I chose my life and it has been an incredible journey. That is a lot of unshared memories. But even more are shared! It just makes me think, is all…

Maybe nostalgia comes with that bit of melancholy because they are halfly or wholly unshared. Such is the condition of being an individual.


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