The act of finishing is really the very beginning of nostalgia… Where old photos become beautiful again, and any sadness which may have surrounded them is forgotten. The subjective nature of personal mnemonics modifies the fluidity of the non-subjective image, to a point where what we see is really what we want.

The sadness inherent in finishing, is not so much the finishing itself, but the melancholy which begins with the string of memories that soon follow. We do not wallow in the finite, but, hang our heads in disappointment over the thoughts of the past-infinite. As if the past had the potential to be without end, as it clashes with the realisation that actually, the end is neigh.

The feeling of somehow defying death through doing anything adventurous, whether it be physically or intellectually, always runs the risk of an equal and opposing experience of feeling death itself. That of course assumes that both prior activities did not result in an actual death to begin with, which is of course, a genuine possibility.

Therefore, when considering the summit of peaks, the crossing of oceans, or tempting philosophical insights into the nature of things… To save energy for an equally problematic return. A return which offers no reward, and no goal…

In forging towards a summit, one is blinded by it’s pointlessness… That feeling comes soon after in the guise of return though, or in the guise of failure… Yet within time, photographs, nostalgia and the wonderful human trait of forgetfulness will bring back delights unheard, and unseen in the very act itself.

Through forgetting we live.

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