What is it that truly defines nostalgia? What is it that creates a core memory and leads us to hold it dear, to reflect back on the small moments? Is it the joy that we felt in that single instant? Is it a unique experience we have never had since, beckoning us backward with its fleeting, momentary allure? Perhaps it is the fact that these past events can never be revisited. Our childhood is lost, but we allow ourselves to tap into it from time to time, daring to wonder if we can feel that same sense of peace and joy, that everything was right with the world and always will be.

Adulthood comes with it a multitude of responsibilities, new stresses, and unforeseen challenges, but I argue that this does not mean one can’t yet dare to dream. The kindling of yesteryear may have been burned, but still leaves fragments for us to sample and reignite.

Much of my life has been dedicated to cherishing storytelling in all media forms, whether it be video games, film, and in the written word. I have often labeled myself a curator of sorts, and maybe that is simply me being kind to myself. An obsessive collector’s spirit also needs an outlet, a form of organization, lest it transform into the garish act of hoarding. Collecting these stories ensures, in my mind, that they never disappear, dissipating into so much digital vapor in the ever changing world of cyber in which we now find ourselves enthralled.

Yet, I would be remiss to ignore the valuable experiences life itself has to offer. While stories are ours to hold and revisit, they truly only belong to the author itself, and we are granted permission to peer in a window to their soul. In our daily lives, we write our own stories, not with a pen, but with our actions, our words, and our relationships. Through these stories, we add to the greater ouvre of humanity, and our beginnings and endings are only a small part of the infinite pages that flow forth.

And so it is, that in my life I have found both value in the stories of others, both those they choose to share in concrete form, and those they present with the mere existence of their being. Most importantly, I find value in my own. I am nostalgic for moments in time that were experienced 30 years past, and often only a week prior to the instance in which I ruminate on them. They inform who I am, and who I am yet to be.

For a moment to exist, it must be felt, and for others to share in its wonder, its story must be told. A book, a disc, a photograph, a word, or a sound; All of these items are concrete stimuli to activate emotions in the beholder. The purpose of these very words and those to follow, may be left up to personal interpretation. If they activate a liminal sense of a moment once experienced, then their purpose may be fulfilled.

I begin here to curate a collection of moments, adventures, and happenstance. Like loose pebbles caught in a tide flowing forth over the craggy scape of my mind, these moments can be recalled at random or with the slightest of stimuli. Perhaps here they will at last find purchase and settle.

~R.A.

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