Those solemn fits of nostalgia only creep out from under the ashes of time when darkness blankets my room; when the fan above me slices through the stubbornly still air; when beads of rain incessantly knock at the window, each a vain, annoying attempt at trapping my gaze in the ever-growing vacuum outside.

I lie there in bed, restlessly staring at this fan above me as its blades — barely illuminated by the thin moonlight piercing the darkness — desperately fight off the stale air in the room, fight off some presiding force intrinsically tethered to my very soul. This air, this air that I breathed my whole life, that foresaw my growth every night, that watched over me as I arose every morning, the young vitality in my eyes shining brighter than the sun. But no, those days are gone now, and that air has flown out the window into the ravenous darkness and the flames in my eyes have tapered into a slim candlelight. Yet with each knock of the now intensifying rain I fall farther and farther into the past, into a time when the possibility of failure never crossed my mind, when innocence blanketed my gaze from the crimson evil of the world, when my greatest worries were whether I would get coal for Christmas or whether the weather was fit to play soccer or whether the rain would shut down school–suddenly, the subtlest hue of green cuts through the dense darkness for just a moment, its glint seemingly lingering on the pellets of rain on the window. As it pierces through my thoughts, I finally realize that I cannot repeat the past, cannot dwell on what is no longer within my grasp. My nostalgia disintegrates into small particles of continued appreciation, of acceptance, and my dreams for the future finally appear — clearer than ever.