The Weight of Nostalgia

I am not someone who could commit to anything for a long time. So maybe instead of trying too hard to form a habit, I’ll just do shits while I still have the energy and patience.

Lately, intentionally and unintentionally, I’ve been picking up the epistemic of a specific genre of music — not only the knowledge itself, but all the culture and history and critical aspects around it. The genre is elevator music.

In Japan, they have an equivalent of sorts, not exactly the same idea, but more reflecting the uprising full of hope of the 60s, 70s, 80s. My point is, this music carries certain temporal and spatial weight, certain contextual information; it consists in the nostalgia, every time you pop it on.

A better future, which could’ve been, is always melancolia.

There’s a voice on Chinese social media saying that a certain young female singer, now in her almost-established phase, is no longer as pure and innocent as when she just debuted. People argue there isn’t that feeling in her music anymore, especially in her vocals. Maybe they are just projecting the melancolia of their own lost youthful time onto her and her music, as an emotional escape.

Fair enough, as long as they are aware of what they are doing.

Maybe let’s just call it the weight of nostalgia — a selfish loathing transient in time.