The sweet mysteries of life
Even though I understand the nebulousness of time, the past seems to make sure that I remember it.
I am not good at remembering dates, and yet a date will suddenly conjure up a whole period of my life. I hark back to it and long for it and the people then who are now all disbursed to the wind, and, mostly, I can only presume, have returned to from where they came. Why is that so sad, that someone has returned to Heaven? Yet I crave one more meeting. There wasn't a proper parting.
Yesterday morning -- Saturday, the day I write this -- March 26 -- suddenly I remember it is the date of someone's birth, someone I loved and want to hang onto. Maybe not love, maybe what passed for love, for certainly I am attached to that time in my life, as unsettling as it was. It was far from ideal, and yet I long for that time, even for one moment of that time, and one look into that someone's eyes. And there is more I want to say to this person by way of apology or something, or perhaps I have questions to ask, or to say, "Thanks," or nothing to say and just be there once more. There must be unfinished business.
This was the time when I lived and loved in San Francisco, rode the cable car, saw rainbows wherever I turned, and, at the same time, was lost. And, yet, I still yearn for that lost time. I still yearn for it even though I am very glad to be who I am now and very glad to no longer be who I was then, yet I still yearn for that one moment in time, as if it were real, and the people were real and as if there were real meaning in what can only be a photograph, and a faded one at that.
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There is a movie called Somewhere In Time. The background music is Rachmaninov's (Russian composer). I was thinking the other day if the experiment that the principal character attempts is possible. In a way I'm kind of a romantic. Who are you now and who were you back then? I'm pretty sure the friend you think you lost never really left to begin with. It's kind of cool actually, to know that there are still people who you can comfortably call on years later, from a long absense, and it'll still feel like it was only yesterday that u parted with them.
I too am not good at remembering dates, but just because I suck at remembering them doesn't mean that I don't love. For I do, so much, perhaps too much. "What shall I give for consolation? My voice that's trembling and weak? My eyes that sparkle not from laughter, but more so frequently from tears? My pain? My grief? My numb endurance, that paved the way to a bitter life? My wealth, my wrath, or my existence that hatred clouded at times? Or shall I give my crimson red, or poetry and prose concent? Or you my love, the last remnant of my wealth? This is a russian poem I read in a magazine many years ago. I did a rough translation of it.
Beautiful, Love. You understand very well.