Regularly, memories wash over me. It’s consuming when it happens. Like someone has emptied a bucket of my own recollections over my head. For a second of time, those memories – piercingly clear but so fleeting it’s impossible to trace them fully – overwhelm the present.
It occurred to me recently that I’ve lived in Denmark long enough now for me to be nostalgic about my first few years here. The course of that time is dimming in my mind – the memories are increasingly apocryphal and I’m beginning to imbue them with impressionistic associations. I feel the memories, in other words, rather than remember them. My narrative of the last seven years is a positive one of self-discovery and economic upward mobility. It’s little wonder that my earliest memories of my time here tend towards the wistful.