I catch myself feeling hyperaware of the present moment a lot lately. In my memory, an adventure I went on an hour ago has already taken on a nostalgic sheen. Next time, there’s more music, more laughter, more beauty, and the adventure slows down. But not the memory. It’s like reality can’t keep up; I can’t help but watch it become nostalgia while I’m still playing it out. Now it’s an unfinished memory. So instead of waiting to find out what happens, I make up the rest in my imagination. Turns out, there are about a hundred and forty-nine possible endings. I don’t like some of them. It’s kind of a lot. Maybe I’m not supposed to be seeing those yet.
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