Those golden memories of vivid delights linger like ghosts drifting through the air. These feelings come without warning. A faint scent circulating around you, awakening your senses. A low hum of a song passing by, seemingly undetected by the conscious mind. The feel of warm china as you clasp a steaming drink. Suddenly, unexplainably, something is jogged. Jarred. You’re pulled back into the past Five years Ten years Fifty years prior. A moment A time.
A dormant memory is shaken alive again. They say that every memory is stored somewhere. You can never forget.
we live today There is a hunger for when it was all a little bit simpler. A little bit more ‘handmade.’
A time you thought you had forgotten, in fact remained forever unforgettable.
The irregular flash of light, as it’s pushed through. A brief moment, before the rest of the world is awake, life comes flooding in. The untouched crisp air awakens the motionless heat. It drops to the floor, Corner first. Bouncing ones or twice. Sliding onto its side on the clean wooden floors, It drifts and dances a few centimetres Carried by the wind. You pick it up, Soft card in your hand. The writing on the front, letters filled with personality, Exposing the person before you have even opened in. Without even looking inside, it already has a story. The creases and scratches on the envelope. It has travelled the world far more than most people, Passed through more hands than you can imagine.
Faint memories come rushing back Flooding your mind, Rolling through your body, Overfl ow ing you temporarily. And somehow you’re instantly transported. Nostalgia is defined as a sentimental longing A wistful affection for a period in the past. It’s a yearning for what we had before. ‘I’d trade all my tomorrows for one single yesterday.’ It has no boundaries. It can be a memory of one morning late last year. An afternoon at school An object. A person. When something changes the way we have previously lived There is always a desire for what we had before. A longing for that feeling of nostalgia A want for the remembrance, A flashback of a time you thought was gone. It is something that is universal. The past always remains the past, but sometimes you want a piece of the past rolled into the future.
Compare The glare of the harsh unreal light. Droning of electricity keeping this un-transformable object alive. Bouncing icons. Pop ups. A box flickers up One unread email. Probably out of office. I will look later. Not long ago Internet came along, fully charged to take over Print was subsiding and almost at extinction But fashion magazines remained glimmering Their light never being put out. While creased paper newspapers and bookshops fade away,
The fashion magazine continues to thrive. The answer is the way fashion is consumed It’s about things, A peculiar species of things, Where products have become highly desired objects Magically charged with an inexplicable power to make us want them. A bustier dripping in golden coins A deep blue velvet dress drowning in tumbling folds A blindingly white crisp folded shirt. There is no real logic behind this desire. Its not as though you buy a new dress because it makes you walk better. It’s the way it makes you Feel, Look, And be looked at. The display in magazines, A narrative in which you’re personally invited to look at The story in which you’re absorbing. Beautiful people dressed in beautiful clothes, An insight into their beautiful life Looking at it makes you feel part of it As somehow because your holding it, it feels as though this life can only be an arms’ reach away. A previously unseen image can make a previously disregarded memory rush back in an instant Carrying you back to a time years ago. An online publication isn’t real enough because whatever article you’re reading, whatever photo you’re looking at, isn’t the actual ‘thing’ you’re holding. And that will always remain the same device A portal to something, but never its actual self. Untransformed. Unchanged.
‘Everyone knows that technology is a glittering lure. The excitement of something new. Unseen before. But there is a rare occasion when the public can be engaged on a level beyond flash Its’ a deeper bond with a product: Nostalgia. It’s delicate, but potent. In Greek, nostalgia means the pain from an old wound. It’s a twinge in your heart, far more powerful than memory alone. This device isn’t a space ship; it’s a time machine. It goes backwards, forwards. It takes us to a place where we ache to go again. It’s not called a wheel. It’s called a carousel. It lets us travel the way a child travels. Round and a round, and back home again. To a place where we know we are loved.’
As a child I loved to sing Ride And swim. The home where I grew up was warm, cozy, light And never dim My best memory was in the common next to my house, where my brother and I always used rollerblade in. Somewhere I will never forget is my Grandpa’s house, which will forever be my favourite place, The long gravel drive, warm red brick walls and everywhere a familiar face, Somewhere where the family comes together and silence is never the case. When I was younger my dream was to write stories, It was what I loved and where I found my glory, I wanted to live in a cottage, deep in the countryside Somewhere to let my mind wander and my thoughts travel wide, The house would be somewhere hidden and out of sight, Think up stories of adventure and love,
I imagined sitting in front of the fire, with my family in my home, somewhere that I had made, somewhere I could be proud of. But with age dreams change. My love of writing continues, but instead of fictional stories I would like to write about music, Interviewing musicians and listing to the guitar, acoustic. Music is what drives my world, It makes you want to dance; sing and can easily cure a bad day It can bring you back to a moment and never let a memory fade away. Instead of the countryside, London is where I want to I would like to stay Close to my friends and family, so I can be with them dayto-day Have a job in the City, mixing with a variety of people, Escape the London bustle, and return to my family, where it is peaceful.
Racing remote control cars was one of my hobbies On kitchen floors and around hotel lobbies Fishing with my dad when we lived in Sydney Was one of my favorite past times Catching fish whether big or mini. During my childhood I lived in many different houses Crowded towns and deserted beaches Singapore, Australia, Dubai, Germany, America and London I travelled the world sometimes slowly, sometimes sudden. My favorite country has to be Singapore A beautiful place, and a house that I will forever adore, I lived in a local style black and white house A beautiful white shell adorned with black beams Decorated with bright flowers A smell I still remember in my dreams My family now has settled and moving is done My home will now forever be Kew, in London It’s a place I can relax, and finally call my home Even though with age I will spread my wings, travel and roam It’s a place to always come back to, somewhere that is my own
My first Christmas here, has been my fondest memory to date The whole family was finally in the same country, we had more that just the holidays to celebrate. Everyone came together for the first time in years, We had a huge lunch and a party full of festive cheer. When I was younger my ultimate dream was to play cricket Represent England is what I wanted and that was it A bat and a ball was all I needed To fulfill my career And be number one seeded. But my dream has changed And now Political journalism is where I want to be Involved in the world That through my years of travelling has become so familiar to me To have my own column would be the ultimate goal And in my past time have a bat and a bowl London now is where I want to stay It’s where I’ve built my life And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
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Kitchen The yellow washed walls stained from sunshine, frame this animated room. The light forever flooding in through three huge windows, painting the room with a golden glow. Glittering patterns appear and disappear like fading memories of celebrations that have taken place here. These scattered, mottled shapes dance around the room as the sun fights its way through the swaying baskets and overgrown climbing vines. Knitted together, the vines clothe the house like a thick winter jumper.
with permanent company That ever so familiar sound of trembling chairs The shaking floor The growling, barking and banging As five calamitous dogs come hurtling through the door, knocking over everything in their path. In the far corner is the AGA, Pumping the room full of heat, circulating around the room keeping it alive. Making it always inviting. In the dead of night, you will see the dogs curled up together at the base, like thieves in the night, stealing its warmth to help them drift into a deep slumber.
Buttercup colored cabinets line the walls, filled to the brim with everything under the sun. Condiments five years past their sell by date, dog treats, This room is so uniquely distinctive, yet so diverse. tubs of flapjacks and old Christmas cake decorations. It changes and transmutes through out the day, shifting to the needs of anyone that enters it. “It’s not off, you’re just being pathetic-Scrape off the mould and get on with it” The house has changed, Rooms have been redone This room is never quiet. Places knocked down The low hum of Radio 4 in the background, New decorations bought. Murmured news reports and faint chorus lines present you But the kitchen has always stayed the same. And this is what makes it the centre point of home.