An Old Photograph

This short story starts with dust woven yellowish picture that I found. I strained upon the wrenched and wrinkled picture in the damp place. Unclear, my mind became a closet of lights sprinkling on the wooden walls, stripes of images parading, I see crowds of dead, and toddlers who are still awake chirping around me, - all in my mind - hey? stop thinking this is just another tale! I'm not hallucinating! but I got a question- how very adorable being old adoring the young version of yourself that you won't get back? old people? tell me, how does it feel to surrender to 'now' and be dragged away by the ghost of self? I will write that I don't believe the gravity that a picture can possess but should I deny that to myself? no, I'm not hallucinating, but should I even fake the sentiments after looking at my old love? should I lie to me now?