The rain today makes me nostalgic.
First I think of campus.Of the way it rained relentlessly the first few days of college, and vague memories-snippets of evenings spent in campus when the weather was a lot like it is now,the sky similarly overcast,a breeze similarly soothing blowing.There would be cups of coffee to be bought from Milon da’s-and the sky would be a benevolently darkening grey.And I would be enraptured,drunk on the heady dreamful of caffeine,on newly found freedom,on the first flush of love,for my love affair with the campus,then in its first chapters,would be shod in the sort of untainted,rosy glory that accompanies the first stages of acquaintance,of discovery.
And so today the rain makes me feel a strange kind of nostalgic-a nostalgia for a present,if that is possible,that seems part past,part half forgotten dream in the way it was seen and felt and soaked in by this me and yet a different me,a long while and a short time ago.And the rain today makes me wonder just how much of our lives is really lived in the reliving,through memories-the workaday of yesterday gains so much significance in retrospect,and even the apparent trivialities of emotion reveal themselves in a certain majesty in memory,in a way they didn’t when experienced as the present.
And then memory takes me back to times I don’t normally relive much.Because they sicken,perhaps,more than hurt.The school where I did so well,the teachers positively doted on me.Where I was the fat ugly kid who was only good at studies-only-“if you weren’t fat people would like you” etc.
But god,the fields there,the tiny flowered garden,and clouds gathering over the walls lining the bus bay.But,god,the best friend I found there and the quiet roads I would take to school-now bustling,now all the desolate beauty gone.
Then the school I went to after that-how did I survive two years there?Yet. The drowsy afternoons,poetry scribbled at the back of history notebooks,empty classrooms and long,deep conversations,eating chocolate in Sociology-a friend had got an assortment for her birthday and was generous enough to offer, unresentfully share- and doodling Warsan Shire’s poetry all over my diary in Political Science.
Life wasn’t easy then.I was younger,dreamier,softer,less jaded. But also so tired,school-the daily ritual of getting up,putting on an uniform and taking down notes all day long would drain me out-but there were those moments,little snatches of happiness that still make me smile.
Maybe this is the way it’s meant to be.Life will sometimes be a bad dream,sometimes a dull hum.But you will get scraps of these approximations of happiness,or contentment thrown your way every other day-sometimes adulterated,like the worry of calories clouding over your enjoyment of your favourite flavour of ice-cream-a Cornetto double chocolate in my case,and sometimes not-the pure bliss of feeling the weight of a newly bought Harry Potter book in the bag you are clutching at twelve,or sinking your feet in the sand and letting the ocean breeze rush past your ears.And those fractions of seconds will fill you with a certain something so deep that the memory will be enough to get you through anything-when nothing seems to be okay anymore.