Please, No More Photos

Photo by McGill Library on Unsplash

The past is hazy and cluttered — with it, come waves of sentiment and doses of elusiveness because I feel it, but cannot remember it.

I’m reading 1984 by George Orwell. In his story, the concept of past, present, and future are distorted to the point where nothing is objectively true. No one knows the year. No one can tell which facts are fake and which are real. No one has any control over their own destiny.

I feel like I’m in 1984.

I feel like I’m in 1984 because I forget how I got here — I forget the flickers of growth and adulation over the past year. I lose details on a day that was particular and intricate and full of energy. I forget the moments that rearranged and organized my subtle inclinations on the goodness of life.

There was this one phase.. this one phase where everything felt good. And I mean good as if the universe was set up to be good. Like it didn’t matter what I did, I couldn’t screw it up, because God decided “this will be good!”

And it was good.

It was good like when you’re a little kid on vacation… and everyday feels permanent. Or like when you’re 6 and it’s Halloween or Christmas. Just that feeling of lightness and assurance that what’s to come is big — it’s big and good and you are ready for it. You don’t know exactly why it’s happening, but it’s…