Identity doesn’t quite roll up memory perfectly even if you’re an introspective type who processes everything into writing. So when you are reminded of old adventures by current stimuli it’s like meeting a forgotten part of yourself. Not nostalgia per se, more like mourning.
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I can sense a sad-mode me to come via a future regeneration in about a decade that will be a powerful downer. You’ve been warned. Being is a continuous choice between melancholy of memory and sanguinary amnesia.
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I never visit the stayers. I tend to burn the boats, slowly with neglect. The inner death is probably similar though
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Haven’t been back to the town I grew up in since 1997 when I was 22. That’ll be trippy when I eventually make it back.