Nostalgesic

One of the perks of being dead is that I have a lot of time on my hands. With no job, no school and no pulse, there's a lot of free time to think. There's a lot of time to reflect. And there's a lot of time to go through old objects that hold sentimental value.

A few days ago, I went rummaging through the closet to see what kind of dusty goodies I could find. Shoebox after shoebox lined the white shelves that ran the length of either side of the wall. These shoeboxes, frayed from use, spanning the small sizes of my sister's feet to the largest sizes of mine, stacked one on top of the other in a jigsawed pattern of questionable stability. In fact, when I unfolded the step ladder and stepped within reach of the shelf to slide one of the boxes out like a giant Jenga piece, I was pretty sure the whole construction of would come toppling down on me, perhaps crushing me, perhaps a stray knick knack falling out of the flimsy flaps and impaling my eye, perhaps knocking me from the step ladder and stabbing my liver into a sharp corner. Or maybe the box would slide out easily, which is what happened.

The first shoebox contained remnants of high school. My diploma was in there. My cap and stole were folded inside, along with all my medals. My diploma from community college was also in there. Boxed up accomplishments. Honors put on paper and then put away. The next box contained old photographs, tucked away in faded envelopes. Some were of me and old high school friends, friends that have since fallen away and faded themselves. Some were of me when I was my ugliest: fat, my skin marbled with acne, unflattering clothes and a sadness in my eyes that is palpable even through the thin film and fake smiles. I saw the transformation from a cute little boy to a pubescent pathetic. The next box contained all of my old action figures: Power Rangers, Transformers with missing missile pieces, and the occasional special edition Spider-Man with projectile webbing. The final box of the day contained all of my old sketches and story ideas. Reading over those notes scribbled on printer paper made me smile. It was a bittersweet box. Sorting through my drawings, I noticed my older sketches compared to the newest pieces and realized I actually had potential. I think about how talented I would be now if I hadn't ever stopped drawing. I knew I got better from practice but one day I stopped practicing. I think puberty had a lot to do with it.

I think I was so creative and artistic when I was younger because I wasn't bogged down in belonging. I wasn't worried about popularity or the way that I looked. I was all in my head, crafting my own fantasy world that existed in my mind. Nothing and no one else mattered. I'd spend my days drawing these fantastical characters and cutting them out into these paper action figures and playing out these epic wars that spanned universes, or in reality, from the kitchen to the living room. I look back now and wish I would have written down all those stories because I can't remember them anymore. I did write some stuff down and it was nice to read and relive it all again. It was when I became aware of myself as other people perceive me that the drawing and playing and general kid stuff started to melt away.

Fantasy was replaced with frustration. Play-Doh was replaced with pizza dough. Drawing was replaced with a depression like a demon possessing my body. All creativity was crushed in the wake of creating a facade of fakery to impress the popular kids. I spent so much time trying to be like other people that I forgot who I was, neglected the growth of myself as a man. I chased after trends instead of tending to my teenage transitions. And just like that, I let go of myself mentally, emotionally and physically. The typical teenage doldrums everyone goes through was magnified in my mind. Because my family was not understanding and I didn't have any friends to turn to because I wasn't being my real self, I turned to food for comfort. Unfortunately, that food only made things worse. It padded the pain for a while but once I started getting fat, that comfort just provided another thing to freak out about.

Looking through all of my old things brought about a realization, along with a lot of dust: life is a lot like lubricant. It's liquid and unpredictable. It's never stable for too long and always moving with or without you, mostly without you. Situations are slippery and events become elusive. If we aren't careful, if we don't take hold of certain circumstances carefully, they'll slide right from our fingertips. And in my life, I've let a lot of things slide. I've neglected opportunities and passed on plights because I was too insecure, too afraid, too unavailable. Somewhere along the line, depression dripped in and I've been incapacitated ever since. I just need some adhesion to abate apathy. I need some friction to feel again. I need to get a grip and pull myself out of this pathetic fallacy. I just don't know how I can go about doing that. With this demonic depression swimming inside like a snake, how can I move forward? Perhaps an exorcism is in order. But what will do the trick? Maybe prayer or poetry? A cross or a catharsis? Theology or therapy?

All I know is that looking through those boxes provided a reprieve from the daily decomposing. It felt good to go back to when I was young and full of excitement over something. I put everything back in its rightful box and carefully placed all my writings, drawings, awards, life back upon the shelf. I closed the door and thought I caught a glimpse of myself, that little freckle-faced kid running around the house with action figures in hand, making whooshing sounds with his mouth. And I can see him smiling.