Visiting home is always a special kind of experience.
I always wanted to leave the place where I grew up.
I felt surrounded by people who enjoyed fixing engines, drinking beer, and watching sports. I read hundreds of interesting books but never found anyone with whom to discuss any single one.
I wasn’t special; I was just contextually out of place.
But bright summer nights offered a welcome form of relief:
When everyone was fast asleep, I’d throw a notebook in my backpack and go out for a long walk. I’d be thinking about media, science, politics, literature, education, and art. Those are, by far, my best childhood memories.
C’est la vie.
When I tell people that I don’t suffer from sentimentality, most people assume that I’m being indifferent.
But when your first true love is thinking about things that few other people seem to care about, the concept of leaving something significant behind becomes alien. If you care about something, you take it with you — inside your head.
How else does anyone bring anything of importance?
People who mistake me for being indifferent often approach life in a diametrically opposite fashion. They get sentimental about the positive experiences they leave behind. And they bring their negative experiences with them, like backpacks filled with issues.
I never left thinking about media, science, politics, literature, education, and art behind me. So, there’s no need to reminisce.
Why invite sentimentality over matters never lost?
I don’t miss this place, home. I’m still contextually out of place here.
But I do know how to create worthwhile memories here:
As soon as everyone is fast asleep, I go for a long walk on the bright summer night, with a notebook in my backpack and a camera over my shoulder, thinking about media, science, politics, literature, education, and art.