Nostalgia. It’s a funny word with a funny meaning. It’s sentimental; longing. It’s love, and at the same time, like being plunged into a vat of icy water and forced to remember things you may not want to remember. It’s the scent of that alleyway in the late hours of twilight. The blood on your lip and bitter tang of alcohol on your tongue. It’s the encounter that left you with butterflies in your stomach and cheeks painted pink, that longing feeling to have that person in your arms. It’s the ferris wheel ride seven breakdowns ago, where you stepped hesitantly into the cart and felt your legs liquify beneath you out of anxiety; Your hand gripping tightly to the bars as you go up. up. up. The sudden release of air as your body is ascending from the ground. The tightening of your throat when you reach the top and spy down at the small people below you. Can they see you? Can they see your fear and your ecstasy? Seven breakdowns later and you’re here. It’s the smell of the new candle you bought that brings you back to your grandmother’s house when you were little; her caring hands guiding you to bowls of batter and stirring with you. Her laugh that radiated from her belly and made her whole body bounce with pure glee. She would let you place an eager finger in the batter, just to appease your begging. Nostalgia is like missing something - someone - somewhere - it’s impossible to really know if you want to go back to times like those. Would you rather be sitting here where you are, in the alleyway again; your hands shaking and cold, or suspended in the air with no gravity to hold you down. Does it make you want to fly? To feel like you once did at the top of the ferris wheel; carefree and without worry. God, I wish i were back at the top of the ferris wheel. Take me back. Take me back. Take me back.