As much as I try to fend it off, it always comes for me. In the happiest highs of my life, like an ominous cloud of fog, it marches towards me constantly. It seeps through doors and window cracks, over the tallest hills and lowest divots, the ghostly form that takes and takes. The ominous shadow of sentimentality.
It wasn’t always draped in cloaks of haunting thoughts. It started as a memory under the guise of comforting nostalgia. The ghost wore long white robes and promised to hold my dearest memories. So that when I’m sad, it’ll remind me of those sweet, warm times lost in the past. And as time passed, I fed the ghost of haunting sentimentality those happy memories that he had hungered for so greatly. And as I grew, so did the ghost of haunting sentiment, larger and larger till his shadow cast an ominous light. It wasn’t until I reached a certain age that the ghost so suddenly changed. It wasn’t until I began to ponder how quickly the stream of time flowed, how fast its rapids spun. How many parties could I celebrate before I moved out? How many school dances could I go to before graduation approached? However, as each event proceeded, my smile grew, and the memories blossomed. But once the final time passed and the party ended, the ghost of haunting sentimentality leached into the memory.
Slowly its dreaded cloak’s sleeves would drape over the glowing fondest and leached the color from each detail until it was drained, leaving puddles of lustful envy to fill the memory. And so once more the ghost of haunting sentimentality’s shadows grew larger and darker.
When I asked him to remind me of those sweet, warm memories, I was faced with something that cackled cruelly. The ghost of haunting sentimentality stole everything. He twisted and soured the sweetest and most nostalgic of my memories. Even when I tried, despite him, to escape his cold hold, I found his leaching everywhere.
With constant whispers, the ghost of sentimentality bombarded me. His words would taint the happiest memories.
“Soon,” he’d say, “This will finish, and you’ll have to wait years to feel the same.”
“Soon, soon, soon,” he’d whisper. Even if I plugged my ears, he’d find another way in. He was thriving and large, growing plump and lazy at his easy bounty. When he’d whisper, his foul mouth smelled of rotten nostalgia.
One night, when once again the ghost of haunting sentimentality laughed so menacingly and showed me another memory he had stolen so easily, I laughed right back at him. His smile lessened as mine grew, stealing the grasp he had bestowed upon me. The memory he had shown me, although seemingly painted black and grey, was full of joy I could only now see. I had enjoyed that time he now showed me, and I grew prouder of my claim to that memory. Yes, the time was lost, and it felt as if an old friend had left me with a cold hole that filled me. Yet when I squinted and tilted my head, the image changed and shifted. I was smiling at that time, I was pleasantly happy. Something deep inside me, even though the ghost of haunting sentimentally was still watching, knew it would come back. In a different form, perhaps, but the feeling would be the same.
And when I laughed I could see the color draining from his face back into those forgotten times. He shrunk and shriveled, his ghostly cloak riddled with holes that ate at him hungrily. In a rain of ash, he disappeared with a scowl from ear to ear. Once that minute had passed and faded into memory, I smiled at the ironic sentimentality.
