Earlier today I was half reading an online article by an American author. The writer seemed to be nostalgic about a time when people would dial a telephone number to hear a robotic but friendly voice telling them the time of the day. The illustrative photo shows a rotary telephone, something that belongs to a past I can't claim mine. I never knew that number in America people dial for time telling. I hardly remember myself dialing that archaic telephone, even though I have seen a photo of three-year-old me doing it. Why was there the feeling of secondhand nostalgia that drowned me almost immediately? Perhaps the author's description was too convincing, too moving. And perhaps at that moment I was longing to relate to someone else's sentiment. I was desperate for a symbolic conversation that shouldn't have been that difficult to arise.
Yesterday, I was half reading another article (I can't finish stuffs these days): 'How to Write About a Vanishing World?'. Plants, animals, ice caps - scientists are studying and writing about things that are disappearing.
The day before yesterday, I was watching a documentary about the last shepherds with their flocks of sheep in a mountain range. Once in while, daylight disappears. The scene gets darker, darker then turns to pitch black. Trees, sheep and the shepherd were no longer seen, despite their noises still being heard. The total darkness took away some sights that had become slightly familiar to me. Nature ultimately overrides humans in darkness. I felt vulnerable in front of the screen.
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