We want to name our eras and moments like pets, and fill our existence with the faint notion that we might actually be an influence in its shaping. We have seen images of young people holding hands as the Berlin wall fell. We’ve seen the crowds at Woodstock and their unconditional love. We’ve seen artefacts of times; both recent and distant, and we want to be part of the only one era we can.

I often feel like words speak louder than feelings. By pronouncing our time, we do not concretisize it but rather empower and enlarge it. I’m not living in the moment as much as I’m analyzing it, imagining what will be said of it in the future. I do not value the now, but rather how it will be evaluated in the future. I realize that objects in the mirror might be smaller than they appear. Memories of the Berlin wall falling, or Woodstock, or a revolution, will be carefully gilded before they’re retold to the people who weren’t there. Eras are mundane while present, and grow with every concurring retelling. Romanticizing a society of times past serves an identical purpose to daydreaming of worlds that never were and never will be. The 60’s or the victorian era are places in our minds equal to those of Cameron’s Pandora or Rowling’s Hogwarts. They are mere illusions that we dream of. I do not claim this to undermine the imaginative qualities of real world eras, but rather enforce the spectacular strengths of the human mind. We are the humans who dream.

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