Whenever I feel nostalgic, I always think that revisiting the subject will satisfy me, get rid of that gnawing feeling, and let me get on with things. And it always makes the feeling worse, and I end up wallowing in it. Why can't I learn?
While I was taking a bath, I thought of an idea for a short story in comics form. It starts with a kid playing video games at the old Silver Ball Arcade, then flashes forward, explaining that the arcade was closed after somebody was caught dealing drugs, the record store underneath it went out of business and was replaced by a Tower Records that expanded into the upstairs area where the Silver Ball used to be, and eventually in turn went out of business. The kid from the beginning, now grown up, is walking by and feels the urge to go in. He jumps the gate that had been locked since the arcade went under, walks up the outside steps, and finds that the door is unlocked. He opens it and finds the arcade in operation, filled with kids sporting velcro Keds. The video rental place is also open, with a poster up for Pee-Wee's Big Adventure. He walks around among the games, and eventually drops a quarter in Gyruss, which he used to love, and starts playing. The "camera" cuts to show the screen from his perspective, then cuts back, and he's a little kid again. His mother appears at the front and calls for him. He finishes up his game and runs to her, and they leave, no time having passed since the beginning of the story.
Yeah, it's semi-autobiographical except for the whole magical-realist ending.
I started tearing up in the bathtub. And I'm tearing up now, typing it out. And I feel bad for feeling bad because of such cheap sentimentality. I miss my past. I miss my old cat Shadow. I feel terrible. And now I'm starting to cry.