I often imagine myself in front of the toy section in a secondhand store. I wonder what I would feel if I pulled the clear plastic storage solutions bins from the attic. I imagine myself standing long enough to wander away from symbols, franchises, brands, fond memories, attachment. There is always a place for objectivity, for observation, a place somewhere between reminiscing happily and seeing piles of plastic junk. I see a wooden car that has been repainted twice, a tamagotchi with a leaking display, an action figure missing both arms, pristine play food sets, jigsaw puzzles with pieces from other boxes, a western revolver still in its original packaging. I learn that authentic meaning can be manufactured and that nostalgia is a tired lure.

There are so many little worlds we construct for ourselves, built at times where narrative is unnecessary and time is what the clock reads. Not memories, but feelings. Falling asleep by surprise. A scratching band tee. The jingle from an insurance commercial. The scent of burnt dust when the heater turns on for the first time. It’s hard to imagine these worlds populated by anyone but yourself. It’s hard to care. This burning, overfilled world makes it very difficult. I come to you, dear listener, thesis in hand with my clothes ablaze. I welcome you to my little worlds, my attic boxes, my sounds from behind the fire, with the hope that you let yourself back into yours.

When you get to them, use caution. Be precise when making value judgments. Consider cause and effect. Shed your nostalgia. Feel.

Happy Propheteering,
Moss Prophet