Even as I was living it, I knew that day would be one I wanted to remember. I drank you in with my eyes, savouring each pixel. I tried to record every hesitation and punctuation, every word being slowly etched in my mind. Even as I was living it, I was recalling a memory. I let everything else melt away; the excess data. I wanted to slow down every second, to breath in your presence, to file away what it felt like, for later.

Months and months, and even years later, however, that day seems to have slipped from my grasp. Maybe what we deem to be significant is rarely so. Or maybe it was a sign, of things yet to come.

A languid, washed out amalgamation of sounds and pictures is all that remains. The lines blurred and the noises warped, making me wonder if it ever was. Or was it what it feels like; a bittersweet reverie.


On the Topic of Love


First of all, love is a joint experience between two persons—but the fact that it is a joint experience does not mean that it is a similar experience to the two people involved. There are the lover and the beloved, but these two come from different countries. Often the beloved is only a stimulus for all the stored-up love which has lain quiet within the lover for a long time hitherto. And somehow every lover knows this. He feels in his soul that his love is a solitary thing. He comes to know a new, strange loneliness and it is this knowledge which makes him suffer.

Now, the beloved can also be of any description. The most outlandish people can be the stimulus for love. The beloved may be treacherous, greasy-headed, and given to evil habits. Yes, and the lover may see this as clearly as anyone else—but that does…

View original post 175 more words