Things that quicken the heart
The very first moment I wake.
A picture or a painting, a landscape of snow, and I remember what you told me once, that you liked trees in winter. Now, every scene of snow reminds me of you.
“He is all pine and I am apple orchard.”
You are all pine and I am apple orchard. It makes all the difference and yet, it makes no difference at all.
“You know the male species can be redundant
I mean we love a woman and think we can satisfy her
Between sheets, covers and pillows
I’m promising your lack of tolerance stuck on a zero
I’m promising that I’m acknowledging you as my hero
Cause you believe in me
No you’re not easily impressed
But I possess qualities that you need to see
Look at my flaws, look at my flaws
Look at my imperfections in awe
Look how you think that my mystique is a round of applause
And yours equally valued
You stick out like an alien compared to those around you
And that’s alright because I like it
You and me are the same
Hopefully I’m invited, hopefully you don’t change
Because I know for sure who you are.”
I know who you are but not all of who you are. It’s a process, a slow, steady accumulation of ideas and inclinations. I’ve missed this, this learning to explore another vast, infinite world. Of course there’s a world inside you, like there is in all of us. But yours is brilliant in its hues and relentless in its pull. I’d rather be one infinitesimal orbiting moon in your sky than a brilliant sun in another’s.
“Well, it depends on what you call fleeting. Sometimes, in the geological sense, a year is a very fleeting moment. And sometimes, to people, its twenty-fifth of a second.” – Ansel Adams
Our lives are but blips on the infinity of the arrow of time. We will end before we have even begun. But that fleeting moment, that twenty-fifth of a second, I’d want that to be you.
Another winter’s day. Here, in the winters, it is not cold enough to freeze but it is just cold enough to want the warmth of another.
When it is night and there is rain, the world is a muffled footstep. When the rain clears, the very first star appears, like a solitary heartbeat in a dead world. And I think of you.
Love makes fools out of all of us. That’s just the way of it, this madness that seems to descend. The constant yearning. The obsessive thinking. There is a hollowness seemingly filled — you’ve found something when you never knew you were really missing anything at all. It’s a whole different kind of completeness. It’s more than just puzzle pieces that fit.
“So what’s wrong if there happens to be one guy in the world who enjoys trying to understand you?”
“But who can say what’s best? That’s why you need to grab whatever chance you have of happiness where you find it, and not worry about other people too much. My experience tells me that we get no more than two or three such chances in a life time, and if we let them go, we regret it for the rest of our lives.”
“I have a million things to talk to you about. All I want in this world is you. I want to see you and talk. I want the two of us to begin everything from the beginning.”
― Norwegian Wood, Haruki Murakami
How apt, I thought. But then, at times like these, everything seems to make sense in some perverse manner. It is like when you study a certain theory or a philosophy in college and acquire a new worldview, starting to see everything as fitting the pattern perfectly. It’s like that, only not so bad. It turns you into a romantic. But it doesn’t hurt. Sometimes you just have to believe that things will work out. Doesn’t matter if she’s thousands of miles away. Things will get figured out. That’s how I’ve always approached things, impulsively. But we will. It’s the kind of destiny you make yourself.
This scene, with that song and those people. This fear’s got a hold on me.
You approach someone and offer them yourself, heart and mind, because that’s all you’ve ever known to offer anyone. And you hope that they won’t take you and bleed you dry. But there’s that fear, there’s always that fear, that somehow you’re not good enough, that what you offer will never be enough. You still trust them though, because how can you not? All that fear, it’s inside you, not inside them. You project your insecurities on them and watch if they run screaming. If not, you’ve found yourself someone.
Two people find each other. It’s the oldest story we know.
You of the nighttime rain that lulls me to sleep
You of the morning dew on every petal of every flower
You of a voice like prayer, echoing in my head.
You of the morning, you of the night
You of my heart, you of my light.
Always the very last thing before sleep descends.