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Nostalgia, or (Why Journals/Blogs are Bizarre and Weird and Pointless)
Disclaimer: The following entry was scribbled in a leather bound journal I brought towards the end of last year. In setting a trend that I’m sure will bode well for this blog going forward, I have decided to recycle old material, rather than take the effort to create something new. It does not reflect the nature of the medium it currently finds itself, and thus, all references to outdated methods of self-reflection and documentation should frankly be disregarded. Set your expectations accordingly.
I spent $15 on this piece of shit. $15 dollars that I did not freely have to spend. $15 that should’ve gone towards food, or at least something worth merit. If anything, this just exemplifies my allegiance to mindless consumerism, to unethical capitalism (as per the norm, itself an unethical system to begin with), or at least to some delirious form of dumbassery. Thus begins my soul’s circling of the drain, being pulled down by the monotony of economic oppression, towards the void of regret and worldly possessions.
We’re off to a good start, aren’t we? We’ve established that this version of Matt is 1: impoverished, 2) self-deprecating, or at least in possession of some worrying self-loathing problems, and 3) a snarky bastard. I can only that the latter of which goes on to underpin this endeavour as a whole, whilst the former two dissipate as time goes on.
I guess, in much the same way that TV pilots establish a sense of tone and theme for a long running ensemble comedy with six seasons and a movie, that I kind of set in motion my own goals with this shit, to assert my mission statement, what I want to accomplish.
Not that it really matters anyway, odds are I’ll abandon this within the month.
What do I want to accomplish? I have next to no fucking clue, but I guess if I start at creating ongoing recounts of simultaneously introspective and profound observations of the world around me, I guess that’s a good place to start.
Or not, because odds are it’s pretentious and self-absorbed and kinda makes me look like a cunt.
But what alternatives are there? Why the hell am I even doing this? Why the hell is anyone doing this? Do we really think that people can detach themselves from their fucking BuzzFeed quizzes and videos of Jake & Logan Paul to give a shit about what we think?
Journals (and by extension, any form of self-documentation, online or analogue) are weird, but I think they exemplify our culture’s obsession with nostalgia, almost to the point where I think they serve to manifest and proliferate such notions. I’ve spent an embarrassingly (and to be frank, worryingly) long time perplexed on nostalgia. I expect this is a side effect of graduation, alongside sudden and existential angst, and occasionally, warm fuzzy feelings. In the face of the new, the dangerous and the unexpected, we fall back on the familiar, the safe. We document our experiences, our feelings memories and our memories out of an almost palpable fear that we’ll forget them, and in the hope that one day, we’ll rediscover what we once held sacred.
Nostalgia has led me to purchase this heap of recycled paper and faux leather you hold in your hands. I aim to record the past in the present to preserve it for the future, for I am fucking terrified of growing old and forgetting who I used to be. I write both to 1) find a constructive alternative to murder and 2) to leave something behind. Note that whilst I have postulated the reasons why we do this, I have not commented whether I think this is good or bad. The truth is that I don’t care, it just IS. And these notions of fear and existential panic could be well-reasoned or even idiotic, but I fucking feel them. Thus, here I am.
This isn’t to say that I wish to stay like this forever, clinging to the comforts of nostalgia, focusing on what I’ve left behind because it’s more clear than what lies ahead. To do so would stifle the journey we’ve been set on. Life moves on.
So I guess that’s my mission statement. To remember and preserve the past, in an effort to move forward.
Because I’m so fucking cliche and profound.
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