"It's all I could've done. And so that's all I did."

The summer I was fourteen, I walked around the neighborhood a lot, twice a day, sometimes for 45 minutes each time. I'd make laps. I'd listen to music the entire time: J-Pop, TV on the Radio, the Garden, Jack Stauber, Billy Idol, MGMT, Breaking Benjamin, and lots of video game soundtracks. It was an act of escapism among many.

Lately, I've thought about how dismal a reality can be if you take away some of the sweeteners in life--technology--mysticism disabled with the smashing of every screen in the room. Staring at the broken pieces, the face reflected bears no expression, destroyed, and now there might be fear in feeling small and suffocatingly bored.

When I was fourteen, at least, this was the fear. Laying in bed and staring at the ceiling was a permissible feeling, but those were grounds where conscious thought was still possible. Though I don't know for sure, I can imagine I wasn't too interested in thinking about much, at least not about anything beyond leisure, what I was consuming, and day-dreams about improving myself in ways I probably never would.

The thing about nostalgia is funny. It's funny because of its hypocrisy. Then, there were idiosyncrasies, and there still are now. Then, there was a palpable stink of warm, gushy sweetness layered on top of something really pretty bad, like whipped cream and spoiled meat. I knew mostly what it was, but let myself be fooled by its novelty. I was drawn to it nonetheless, like a moth to a blowtorch.

Now the cream's expired, but it's still cream--regrettable as it is. There are parts I find myself admiring, in part due to curiosity, disgust, some indescribable empty feelings, etc. But you gotta look away eventually, even if you can stay there as long as you like.

I don't miss any of it, really: not being chronically online; not Instagram friends realer to me than anything else; not obsessing over anime girls and "fictional characters"; not having all interest in anything else co-opted by the impulse to consume.

I find myself forgetting these memories are mine and not someone else's.