The distant planet

It seems that a recent bout of loneliness has stricken a number of writers on the aggregators, causing them to pine for … well, just pine. There's probably no seasonality associated with this, but July-August does happen to coincide with the period where, for new grads, realization begins to sink in. New faces are right around the corner, and old classrooms left behind.

So pick your poison, be it Honey and Clover, or 5 Centimeters per Second, or even OMK, and revel in what once was, before the dawning of what will be.

The first option is not my first option, as well done as it may be. But if it's any consolation, the short piano arrangement of Waltz is a strong contender in place of the series that spawned it, if for no other reason than because it was played frequently, as in almost every episode.

Playing the same sentimental music, every time there is a sentimental moment, to let the viewer know that they're watching a sentimental moment, is an extremely effective marketing tactic for sentimental people and those who don't mind being beaten over the head with obvious.

If you're looking for something a little stronger, might I suggest One More Time, One More Chance. Has a fuller body, with a nose of fresh pine, and the 5 cm/s OST is mostly a variation on it anyway.

The fond memories of old, aren't; they become vivid shades of blue and rose and bittersweet. No wonder, sitting in that mind cellar of yours, tucked away in a cool dry place, shielded by a firewall of daily trivialities. The mundane is a long road and a bit of a slog in itself, as well it should be. Anything to make it a bit tougher to indulge in the drink, right?

And how easy it is to partake in something that is not so much the fruits of your labour, but the fruits of your existence. The fountain of youth truly lies in the past, when you were, you know, young, and silly, and blissfully unaware of the world beyond the backyard of your own feelings.

Suddenly, you don't need anything else besides your memory goggles. You don't need anyone else except that statue, perched on an obsidian pedestal, with a face that you don't really recall, but was and is beautiful anyway. Growing up sucks. Calvin and Hobbes was right, your parents were wrong.

Why can't we return to those days? Let's start over, bridge time and space, until what remains is merely a sliver of final distance.

Slowly — hopefully? — something else begins to sinks in: You're lost in a memory well of your own making, and you must escape. But how? All rockets do work, and you're no exception. Run away, if you must, but that only gets you so far. If you're lucky, it will get you to a temple in need of restoration.

If there are no such temples in your area, running away inevitably devolves into spinning wheels, but maybe by then you'll be too exhausted to care. Remember, it's a bit of a slog to get there; it makes sense that it must be a bit of a slog to get back.

There's always writing about it, but you knew that already. Chances are you've already made your trip to the Wordpress Dashboard Confessional, or whatever platform you use (pick your poison, after all). I salute your irresponsible act of sending some unsuspecting satellite crashing into the atmosphere, even as you claw your way out of it.

And then, there's doing work of a totally different sort. Or maybe it's not so different after all.

By all means, do whatever you think it takes to get yourself back into orbit, where you can form new connections, which will one day become old connections, that you can eventually look back on through rose-tinted bifocals. The fastest way I can think of, incidentally, is to form new connections.

Running away tends to imply running into people, unless you're somewhere sparsely populated. Or you refuse to engage, which is probably what landed you on this rock to begin with. Well, 'fraid I can't help you there.

Or maybe I can. It's about another round of first steps, after all, so take one, and take off.

P.S.

All propaganda slogans are effective because they have a degree of truth. Let's just leave it at that.