I have had playmates, I have had companions; In my days of childhood, in my joyful school days - All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. My school days were the happiest days of my life; which should give you some indication of the misery I've endured over the past seventeen  years.Memories, even your most precious ones, fade surprisingly quickly. But I don’t go along with that. The memories I value most, I don’t ever see them fading.I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realize an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don't have complete emotions about the present, only about the past.Farewells can be shattering, but returns are surely worse. Solid flesh can never live up to the bright shadow cast by its absence. Time and distance blur the edges; then suddenly the beloved has arrived, and it's noon with its merciless light, and every spot and pore and wrinkle and bristle stands clear.The worst memories stick with us, while the nice ones always seem to slip through our fingers.Time was passing like a hand waving from a train I wanted to be on.I hope you never have to think about anything as much as I think about you.The Greek word for "return" is nostos. Algos means "suffering." So nostalgia is the suffering caused by an unappeased yearning to return.When people talk about the good old days, I say to people, 'It's not the days that are old, it's you that's old.In every age "the good old days" were a myth. No one ever thought they were good at the time. For every age has consisted of crises that seemed intolerable to the people who lived through them.

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The campus, an academy of trees,
under which some hand, the wind's I guess,
had scattered the pale light
of thousands of spring beauties,
petals stained with pink veins;
secret, blooming for themselves.
We sat among them.
Your long fingers, thin body,
and long bones of improbable genius;
some scattered gene as Kafka must have had.
Your deep voice, this passing dust of miracles.
That simple that was myself, half conscious,
as though each moment was a page
where words appeared; the bent hammer of the type
struck against the moving ribbon.
The light air, the restless leaves;
the ripple of time warped by our longing.
There, as if we were painted
by some unknown impressionist.An echo of the days of pleasure,
An echo of the days drew near me,
A little of the fire of the youth of both of us,
Again I took in my hands a letter,
And I read and reread till the light was gone.
#

Nostalgic memory is a sudden encounter with the thingness of the thing that has been forgotten, not the continuous desire for possessions, whether past, present, or future. You can drag my body to school but my spirit refuses to go,wants to hanged up with my friends outside classroom .