Waltz

Waltz Nostalgia was a beautiful stranger.

You came across her through her work on a particularly lazy afternoon; desperately in want of respite from the mundane, you found her tiptoeing around the back alleys of your mind. As soon as you noticed her, she seemed to glow from within. She approached you coyishly, humming an 80s tune that felt vaguely familiar. Maintaining a steady, hypnotic gaze, she walked right into focus. It was mesmerising—with her every step, your emotions frantically pulsated through the walls surrounding Nostalgia, lighting up your whole brain. One pirouette and you were helpless to your feelings. She seemed like good, no, fantastic company, and this felt like a chance you simply couldn’t miss.

So you reached for her hand, and the two of you danced; nestled in each other’s arms, swivelling away through time and space, back and forth through your past in swift, graceful movements. She spoke tenderly, whispering to your heart things you’d long forgotten to cherish. It was easy to confide in her, to just be with her. You took turns to lead, as Nostalgia slowly stitched together a visual spectacle for you. It was undeniably breath-taking.

Nostalgia was a flirtatious companion.

You always had a weakness for the intensely personal and the sentimentally beautiful, and her entire performance, her modus operandi as an artist, revolved around just that. She found you just as fascinating—a meek human awestruck by her performance. You made her feel alive, as if the inspiration she needed to work on her art had finally arrived. In you, she had found everything she could ever ask for—a patron, a muse, an admirer, a partner.

From your first dance together, your memories became her favourite medium—so fragile and so whimsical, she’d said. Malleable. Every piece she created for you was more poignant than the last. And so you succumbed—you succumbed to her art, famished for the gravity of her work and its gripping immersive power. You willingly took the backseat, wore those rose coloured glasses, and watched her edit and re-edit moments of your entire life. Add layers of foley. Switch up the lighting. Some background music. Turn up the dialogues. Room tone. Ah

yes, that's it! Wonderful. A masterpiece. A true cinematic marvel. It was undeniably romantic.

Nostalgia was an obsessive stalker.

You loved Nostalgia, but your life was more than her; you-—a human, a social, sensory being—constantly sought something larger than yourself in this ephemera called life.

Nostalgia grew envious of your fascination with the Present. A glint of jealousy would permeate her aura every time you chose to be with the Present. It was painful for her, to see you squander precious time creating new memories rather than mull over your older ones with her. She would watch you closely, vye for your attention, desperate to see whether her latest piece appealed to your most nuanced set of emotions, all but to gain a selfish validation for her artistic practice.

Regardless of the time you sought with the Present, she found you; wove herself into your slightest reveries, and strained every memory you had till its very last wisp. Good moments, bad moments, everything was emphasised and exaggerated, juxtaposed onto one another in an attempt to make something artistically new. You tried to resist her absolutely stunning visuals but sometimes, they were just too good to look away. You simply couldn’t look away.

She feverishly doted upon your mind, and in your most oblivious moments, she ensnared you into her beauty once again. You watched helplessly, hands tied behind your back, as she took cherished moments of your life and played them over and over again on a set of distorted mirrors.

It is an undeniable nightmare. Endless. Recurring. Strange, so strange…

So strangely beautiful.

Nostalgia is a beautiful stranger.