Sometimes I wish I was stronger- strong enough to walk away, without ever turning back. Sometimes I wish I was weaker- weak enough to stay without thinking of the consequences. Instead, I'm just stuck in between, struggling to fight back the tears, straining to keep the anger at bay.
They offer you a fragile promise of affection; you call it love, you follow it on wind-beaten mountain peaks and icy winter seas.Then it is spent, all hopes for resurrection fading. You stumble back to the beginning, daring to dream you might one day be granted another fleeting illusion of eternity.
The past is not ours to re-live, the future is not ours to shape and the present, I fear it's sinking fast. No time for tragedy here, no space for mourners in the vastness of mortality.
Friday 25 March 2011
Tuesday 15 March 2011
Of cities and ghosts: Chapter 387
What difference does it make, she wondered. Another hurriedly consumed coffee; a few random pieces of information exchanged; an hour-long escape from reality. Words uttered were, again, only the tip of the iceberg.
She was here, he was there, and that was all there was to it. This kind of distance could not be measured in kilometers. Dreams, goals and attachments had gradually filled up the gaps, which once might still have been called bridgeable.
It felt as if something had been left unfinished, or maybe that was merely the fantasy she needed to keep her going. She didn’t even rely so much on it anymore. Desire fading as memories grew old. Blood going stale in the veins of aging Hope.
No more whys or what ifs. No tears, no poetry, no expectations. She never had a big role in this play, anyway- a fact she had come to accept as such. All she could do was watch, and nod, and smile in recognition, awed with the subtlety, the ingenuity and irony of it.
She was here, he was there, and that was all there was to it. This kind of distance could not be measured in kilometers. Dreams, goals and attachments had gradually filled up the gaps, which once might still have been called bridgeable.
It felt as if something had been left unfinished, or maybe that was merely the fantasy she needed to keep her going. She didn’t even rely so much on it anymore. Desire fading as memories grew old. Blood going stale in the veins of aging Hope.
No more whys or what ifs. No tears, no poetry, no expectations. She never had a big role in this play, anyway- a fact she had come to accept as such. All she could do was watch, and nod, and smile in recognition, awed with the subtlety, the ingenuity and irony of it.
Wednesday 2 March 2011
Of mutuality and compromise
Is there such a thing as love that does not care for reciprocation? I'll never try to hold you back, we say, but do we really mean it? What if the freedom we'd so eagerly grant is merely a figure of speech?
Sometimes devotion feels almost like a kind of self-sacrifice. Sometimes we seem to give up all our needs, desires and personal traits, desperately hoping it will make us worthy of another person's attention.
But after you've surrendered all you believed in, after you've wiped off all the characteristics that made you yourself just to fit in someone else's ideal, will you still be able to recognize the stranger in the mirror, and will the object of your admiration ever come to truly love this shallow reflection you've become?
Sometimes devotion feels almost like a kind of self-sacrifice. Sometimes we seem to give up all our needs, desires and personal traits, desperately hoping it will make us worthy of another person's attention.
But after you've surrendered all you believed in, after you've wiped off all the characteristics that made you yourself just to fit in someone else's ideal, will you still be able to recognize the stranger in the mirror, and will the object of your admiration ever come to truly love this shallow reflection you've become?
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