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However accidentally, nostalgia reminds us of our mortality. Happy times gone. Youth vanished. Purity tarnished. Beliefs lost. Or relationships that went sour, lost their luster, eroded through routine—or, simply, "died."
We may view an old photograph and smile. After all, it affirms life lived. Yes, we did do that—felt that. And it was exciting, invigorating . . . heartwarming. But no matter how hard we might seek to relive what once was so vital to us—and in us—the past is irretrievable. The gulf between what is, and what was, can never be bridged. It's a part of our historic self that can be revisited at will, but again and again, must be said goodbye to.
And that's the very foundation of nostalgia. Bittersweet are its ingredients. However delectable the memory, the very "taste" of it is yet tainted by the vaguely unpleasant scent of longing, or regret—the indefinable sadness of life's finite essence slowly slipping away from us. Each look back subconsciously reminds us that there's that much less to look forward to—the sand in our hourglass trickling ever lower. Our lives that much more "used up."
And then there's the inherent grief of it all: in any particular instance, maybe only a "miniature grief," but still a not-to-be-denied impulse to mourn what was once valued, cherished, clung to. It hardly matters whether—in your mind's eye—you're glimpsing a romantic boat trip over Niagara Falls; or bearing witness to the splendid spectacle of nature's hidden beauties, while swaying uneasily on a mule in the Grand Canyon; or, quite simply, remembering how it felt when you spied your first love gazing adoringly at you.
It's all past now: that time, that place, that "newness," that exquisite freshness and delight. Sure, you're free to treasure it—but you're not granted the liberty to restore it. In your imagination, you may re-capture small particles of its original immediacy . . . but always at a remove. The memory doesn't—can't—mirror what was once felt with unrepeatable pleasure or intensity. And endeavoring to recover, or reconstruct, what at first may have felt more real than real may, alas, make it ever less so.
In a sense, we all live "in exile" from the past.
So even though our dreamy reminiscence may lead us—involuntarily—to smile, we may also find ourselves shaking our head. For that muted, wistful moment of recognition commemorates a past that will never return. We may even become teary-eyed—overcome by a sweet, wordless sadness. Each old photograph we try to resurrect tells the same irrefutable tale: that never before have we been this old, that the hidden cost of all the experiences that have made our life worth living has been the cumulative loss of innocence. . . . Sadder but wiser, indeed.
And as we reflect backwards, we can't help but become more yearningly aware that (like it or not) our lives will continue to march forwards. . . . To our ultimate destiny—oblivion.
Note: The subtitle for this post was adapted from the phrase, "the mysterious presence of absence," in answers.com .
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