859 Quotes About Nostalgia

...when you’re young, you plan for the future, and when you’re old, you’re nostalgic for the past. So the whole joy of life disappears, the joy of the here and now. Feeling nostalgic for the past, planning for the future. Planning for the past, feeling nostalgic for the future. Today gets caught in a vise between tomorrow and yesterday, and it writhes and dies.

I love how summer just wraps it’s arms around you like a warm blanket.

As I finished my seventh beer, my loss of hope was replaced by despair. How I miss the days where the scent of alcohol lurked into my nose but not into my brain, with a drunk brain there is nothing between the act and the thought, and under this vichyssoise of beers I now veer the most verbose

On summer nights when the windows are open, you can listen in on people's lives—babies crying, kids laughing, radios blaring, mothers yelling, couples fighting. Funny thing is, the sounds are always the same. Even though different people come and go, the sounds stay the same. I like that. It makes me feel a part of something big, something never ending, like the stars.

Funny thing is, the sounds are always the same. Even though different people come and go, the sounds stay the same.

Toulouse is to lose. Good on us,
That one never lied And said it’s still alive. A full life is a series Of incompletions. Whole with holes. Entirely fragmented. Carrying one-days, Sentences, Old lovers, And looks. Absolutes turn men and women
Into machines that need
Numbers to work.
But people were never meant to work Just to live.

Their house was about a mile outside of town. The kids would play outdoors, in the backyard and the large stubble field behind the house. Dusk seemed to last for hours, and when it was finally dark they would sit under the porch light, catching thickly buzzing June bugs and moths, or even an occasional toad who hopped into the circle of light, tempted by the halo of insects that floated around the bare orange lightbulb next to the front door

The whiff of ocean on the southern breeze and the smell of burning asphalt brought back memories of summers past. It had seemed as though those sweet dreams of summer would last forever: the warmth of a girl’s skin, an old rock ‘n’ roll song, freshly washed button-down shirt, the odor of cigarette smoke in a pool changing room, a fleeting premonition. Then one summer (when had it been?) the dreams had vanished, never to return.

Once upon a time the future was supposed to be brighter, shinier and more fun. When did that vision pass? When did the word 'new' lose it's luster? Now the past is supposed to hold the hopes we once confided to the future. We're directing attachments that used to go forward backward.