For a friend

I know not how to make my voice say

That my heart cries for you today,

And I know not how to comfort thee

With much more than an earnest plea;

Today I ask all angels in the sky

To turn each gasp and every cry

Into beds of roses for her to sleep,

And may your soul learn not to weep

For we’re all but visitors doing time

Till those promised bells begin to chime.

We are so near the sweet departed

Who want us not so broken-hearted;

Despite the void and all the pain,

Remember not these days of rain

But count the days of sunny splendor

Given to us by ones so tender.

It is not far, this new hello

Though hours seem to pass so slow,

We’ll see their bright faces again

So keep in mind that until then

If your strength begins to sway

I am only a few steps away.

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Past salad

I was born nostalgic, for things I had never known, for moments I had never lived, constantly harassed by recurrent images of what never was. As time passed, I couldn’t manage to shake off the lingering itch the past liked to cause, and after a while, I grew addicted to its presence I many a time tried to ignore, unsuccessfully.
I miss everything, all the time, even the things causing me displeasure or discomfort, and I can’t help but feel ripped of all that time leaves behind. The many tribulations of being unapologetically nostalgic have unmistakeably left deep marks all over my being, psychologically, physiologically, in ways I can’t even begin to describe, without however refraining my thirst for more. Today, I remembered my first steps on computers and the internet, getting accustomed to the likes of MSN and the strange chatting habits the new generation would never understand, finding songs on Limewire and co. and waiting five hours for them to finish downloading their sad two or three megabites of sound. There were games like minesweeper and solitaire, replaced today by loud mind-numbing graphically enhanced ones, and ridiculously fun programs in “accessories” like paint, today supplanted by over-the-top phone apps. I’m aware that I sound like a geezer sometimes, talking about the present like this destructive phenomenon governed by silly technological advances, but that’s only because I believe it is so. I miss the genuine authenticity of what we famously call user experience, how things were used according to an emotional jump of the heart, or due to little brain tickling innovations, and not ever-so-quickly changing fashion dictations. Unable to let go of anything rendered obsolete with time, I still store items like floppy disks; those little plastic squares that could only store three word documents and a few low resolution pictures, predecessors of the almighty usb. I am also fond of VHS tapes and radio cassettes, the fact that we could stop and continue where we had left off, or manually rewind and fast forward with a pencil making the listening experience all the more valuable and deserved. I still wait for the scratching sound a vinyl makes as the player’s needle delicately makes contact with its rugged surface… I love rusted metal and peeling paint, worn out clothes and faded armchairs, the smell of how things used to be and how things lived. Today, we sit on chairs to watch television or play video games whileas my grandmother sat down to rest and observe the world we have grown used to ignoring, making room for useless activities and shockingly stupid pleasures.
I miss the past but I somehow live in it, refusing to let go of the genuine experiences we’re nowadays deprived of or too demanding to appreciate fully. Nostalgia, forever my bread and butter.