nostalgia is the price I pay for indulging escapism.
everything you love now will come back to hurt you later;
we all know that so why do I submerge myself in
the songs of my today? after all, they will only become bitter requiems of
tomorrow; I wonder, does paris feel nostalgia when he takes
a tour through the scars that mankind marked upon
a map of his own self? perhaps he reminisces of
when he pays a visit to his own museums.
or perhaps he grieves an old friend/foe when he kneels at napoleon's tomb
does he feel shame at siring such destruction?
or does he laugh in hindsight at his former flaws,
like youthful impulses, the ones I snicker/cringe at when I shuffle through
playlists compiled in what feels like centuries past?
my deck of memories--it contains every card I own
to break myself, all I have to do is reach out.
and I pull one away like it's a ticket to a time-traveling machine;
I've found that anachronistic anecdote of who I used to be.
I do not live forever so
before I can drown in memories
I'll be gone. no, I am not glad to end but I pity the immortals/those who cannot;
my mortality will bring me to shore. I am glad
I can take these steps/breaths/blinks without needing
to stumble into
Caroline Dinh is a Vietnamese American writer and artist. She is the founder of Backslash Lit and has work forthcoming in Strange Horizons, Flash Point SF, and Honey Literary. Talk to her anytime about leitmotifs—she doesn’t know too much about them but wishes she did.