Remember When

Remember when we measured time in seasons, not seconds? When summer stretched like taffy, endless and golden, each day a universe unto itself. When fall wasn't a pumpkin-spice marketing campaign but the earthy scent of leaves returning to soil, the satisfying crunch beneath our shoes, the early darkness that drew us home.

Remember when waiting was just part of life? When letters took weeks to arrive, each one a treasure of handwriting and paper choice and the faint scent of whoever sent it. When photographs remained unseen until developed, sometimes revealing a thumb over the lens or closed eyes, imperfections we cherished rather than deleted.

Remember when we got lost? Really lost—before GPS told us exactly where to turn, before our phones mapped the fastest route. When getting somewhere new meant unfolding a paper map across the dashboard, arguing over the best way, sometimes pulling into gas stations to ask directions from strangers who drew lines on your map and told you about the diner you shouldn't miss while you're in town.

Remember when we made plans and kept them? When "I'll meet you at the movie theater at 7" meant you'd better be there at 7 because there was no way to text "running late." When you stood in the designated spot, scanning faces, the anticipation of seeing someone building with each passing minute.

Remember when we listened to entire albums? When music wasn't algorithmic but intentional—artists arranging songs in a specific order, creating an experience that built from the first note to the last. When we knew which song came next before it began, the familiar click or subtle static between tracks a pause for breath.

Remember when we were unreachable? When leaving the house meant being truly away, unaccountable for hours at a time. When workdays ended when you left the building. When vacation meant notifying people in advance that you'd be unavailable, and no one expected otherwise.

Remember when boredom was productive? When having nothing to do meant staring at clouds until they formed shapes, inventing games with whatever was at hand, following ants to see where they were going. When empty time wasn't filled immediately but allowed to remain empty until something interesting grew from the void.

Remember when we remembered? When phone numbers of friends lived in our minds, when birthdays were known by heart rather than prompted by notifications, when we navigated familiar streets using mental maps built over years.

I'm not suggesting everything was better then. It wasn't. But there's something worth preserving in the rhythms of an analog life—the patience, the presence, the deliberate attention.

Perhaps what I miss isn't the past itself but the fullness with which we experienced it, unmediated by screens and algorithms, each moment demanding to be lived completely before it slipped away.

—Everett

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