Nostalgia.

A word I associate with old men sitting around a bar reminiscing on the good old days; a sense of ‘belonging’ that only those who have lived through it have access to. Grandparents telling tales of walking to school barefoot, taking a horse and carriage to get to town. There’s a beauty in this as their smile creases skin, their face appearing lighter than before. But there’s a sad aftertaste too. When you catch them looking at a photograph for a moment too long, staring out the window into nothingness, remembering what was.

When I worked late shifts in a bookshop, a middle-aged man would come in on a Friday night, always humming along to the tunes in an upbeat mood:

“It’s like a time machine,” he said one day, pointing to the ceiling.

“Oh?” I soon copped he was referring to the music as he bopped along to Don’t You Want Me Baby.

“I remember this playing in the underground club in Bristol and oh god.” He shook his head with a giddy enthusiasm as if he were trying to recreate every sense of the experience. “No phones.”

“Hard to imagine,” I admitted.

“You know, I don’t even buy books. I come in here every week for the tunes. Don’t change them. It’s a bloody time machine,” he said as he walked out the door. And I couldn’t help but feel a strange mixture of happiness and sadness watching the man with his briefcase and suit blend into the bustling streets.

A time machine; isn’t it incredible how a few chords can take each of us back to a personal moment from the past, or it can forever scar the present moment?

It’s probably one of the reasons I haven’t been out to busy bars in a while: booze and beats are a guarantee to bring you back. And it’s also one of the reasons working alone in a bookshop with music on repeat is aching my bones, becoming emotionally painful. My brother and I spent far too much time listening to music growing up together. Fighting over the NOW 60 CDs, having rap battles to Eminem throughout our four-hour car journeys between two homes, mum always being the unimpressed yet very patient judge behind the steering wheel. The songs that hit hardest were the ones appreciated in silence; labelled ‘perfect’ for how they suited the mood of that moment. Saying what words couldn’t.

My grandfather doesn’t have the torment of choosing between the past and present; his mind seems to be stuck in memories of his youth, struggling to create new long-lasting ones. He’ll recite a range of songs, singing loudly and proudly, yet can’t seem to remember my name. “Hello you,” he says with a smile like he’s holding a secret only the two of us are in on. Waiting for me to fill in the missing gaps, which I do. But not all of them. Not the parts where his loved grandson died before he did. The past is appealing when the present world is too painful to comprehend. A world where brain tumors can surprise and snatch the future of healthy 28-year-olds, where people in power support murdering women and children, so long as they stay in power. So long as their society profits. Yes, when days are dark, shoulders are heavy and this whole thing called ‘life’ feels hopeless, a time machine would be a comfortable solution; an easy escape.

But time machines also have the ability to move forward. And this can feel impossible when we’re stuck. What if we are already listening to songs that might one day become our favorite? A song that could be played at a wedding or a future friend’s birthday. A song that could be humming along in the background of a moment that feels perfect. Of course, leaping into the future and knowing what’s to come could also terrify us. But I bet there are some beautiful heartwarming glimmers ahead that will make you feel things you never thought possible. It’s the not knowing that cripples us; the waiting around when we’d rather take control.

If we break down the word ‘nostalgia’:

Nostos = Homecoming

Algia = Pain

Isn’t it weird how one word can contain two different ideas? How one thing can be both beautiful and painful?

Surely a dose of nostalgia is healthy if not crucial for connection. Who doesn’t love sitting around a table shaking with laughter, giddy like teenagers though you’ve just turned 45. Sharing your significant stories with a new significant other. Or retelling anecdotes to revisit the souls of lost loved ones. But there’s a difference in appreciating something and longing for something. Being able to relive memories without trying to recreate them.

Brené Brown defined the emotion ‘bittersweet’ as mixed feelings of happiness and sadness:

“The sadness about letting something go mixed with gratitude for what’s been experienced.”

Finally, I have a word for the strange combination of feelings that electrified my body as I prepared to leave Ireland in January this year. My brother passed away several months before and I was crippled with confusion coming to terms with his death but also figuring out how to move forward. Staying at home felt like a time machine I never asked for: I was stuck in the memories of the past, the pain of the present, and the possibilities of a future that never was. So I booked a flight and an unexplainable wave of emotions rushed through my body while driving along the motorway one evening. The sun was setting as Bittersweet Symphony played through the speakers. It felt so sad to be alive, yet so good to feel alive.