I read that the body remakes itself every seven years. Every cell. Even the bones rebuild themselves like coral. Why then do we remember what should be long gone? What’s the point of every scar and humiliation? What is the point of remembering the good times when they are gone? I love you. I miss you. You are dead.
There is so little life, and it is fraught with chance. We meet, we don’t meet, we take the wrong turning, and still bump into each other. We conscientiously choose the ‘right road’ and it leads nowhere.
Fall for me, as an apple falls, as rain falls, because you must. Use gravity to anchor your desire.
I have come so far so fast that I haven’t had time to ask whether or not this is where I want to be.
Pulsar: a dying star spinning under its own exploding anarchic energy, like a lighthouse on speed. A star the size of a city, a city the size of a star, whirling round and round, its death-song caught by a radio receiver, light years later, like a recorded message nobody heard, back-played now into infinity across time. Love and loss.
People like to separate storytelling which is not fact from history which is fact. They do this so that they know what to believe and what not to believe.
I don’t expect to be happy. I don’t imagine that I will find love, whatever that means, or that if I do find it, it will make me happy. I don’t think of love as the answer or the solution. I think of love as a force of nature – as strong as the sun, as necessary, as impersonal, as gigantic, as impossible, as scorching as it is warming, as drought-making as it is life-giving.
Odd that a festival to celebrate the most austere of births should end up being all about conspicuous consumption.
The light was as intense as a love affair. I was blinded, delighted, not just because it was warm and wonderful, but because nature measures nothing. Nobody needs this much sunlight. Nobody needs droughts, volcanoes, monsoons, tornadoes either, but we get them, because our world is as extravagant as a world can be. We are the ones obsessed by measurement. The world just pours it out.
Humans have given away all their power to a “they”. You aren’t able to fight the system because without the system none of you can survive.
She is a maze where I got lost years ago, and now find the way out. She is the missing map. She is the place that I am.
When I touch her, my fingers don’t question what she is. My body knows who she is. The strange thing about strangers is that they are unknown and known. There is a pattern to her, a shape I understand, a private geometry that numbers mine. She is a maze where I got lost years ago, and now find the way out. She is the missing map. She is the place that I am. She is a stranger. She is the strange that I am beginning to love.
I thought I might become someone else in time, grafted on to something better and stronger. And then I saw that the running away was a running towards. An effort to catch up with my fleet-footed self, living another life in a different way.
Why do humans need answers? Partly I suppose because without one, almost any one, the question itself soon sounds silly.
You were loved then and you are loved now. Isn’t that enough?
I guess I’m afraid of not being like other people. No, that’s not true. I’m not afraid of not being like other people. I’m afraid I won’t find anybody who doesn’t mind me not being like other people. I’m not ambitious for money or power. I want to find some real way to live.
A treasure had fallen into our hands and the treasure was each other.
Sometimes it doesn’t matter that there was any time before this time. Sometimes it doesn’t matter that it’s night or day or now or then. Sometimes where you are is enough. It’s not that time stops or that it hasn’t started. This is time. You are here. This caught moment opening into a lifetime.
Why doesn’t she want me? The sun is rising now, but it is 93,000,000 miles away and I can’t get warm... She won’t be cold. She has the sun inside her.
The missingness of the missing. We know what that feels like. Every endeavor, every kiss, every stab in the heart, every letter home, every leaving, is a ransack of what’s in front of us in the service of what’s lost.