Romanticizing the past isn’t just foolish—it’s morally bankrupt. To coddle nostalgia is to buy into the comforting lie that things were once better, purer, simpler. They weren’t. That “beautiful past” you’re pining for? Fiction. A curated highlight reel edited by your dopamine-addled memory. In clinging to it, you’re not just turning your back on the present—you’re scorning the real, imperfect people around you in favor of ghostly caricatures from a fantasy world.
Worse, nostalgia doesn’t just lie—it sedates. It lulls you into a syrupy, maudlin stupor where forward motion feels sacrilegious. Why build something new when your mind’s already rented a timeshare in 1983? The more you indulge it, the more you stall out—emotionally, spiritually, and socially.
And let’s not ignore the narcissism at its core. Nostalgia gives self-pity a golden frame. You’re not grieving a lost time; you’re grieving the version of yourself you imagined you were back then. The tragedy? That person never existed. You’ve built an altar to an illusion—and now you’re feeding it your present.
In the end, nostalgia doesn’t connect you to anything. It isolates you. It invents a wound and then forces you to mourn it. Regret follows, not because you lost something real, but because you’ve convinced yourself you did. It’s time to stop romanticizing the fog and start walking through it.
Cinemorphosis 
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