My love like a voice.
Tonight I should be curled up with wine, listening to the Avett Brothers. It is a night meant for pining and nostalgia. Those are the two things I do best. The cold brings memories and longings that summer lets you forget, like car windows rolled down too far under a canopy of glistening sky. Like being afraid to get out from under your covers in the morning. Like company in the early hours of evening.
"We do not rest satisfied with the present. We anticipate the future as too slow in coming, as if in order to hasten its course; or we recall the past, to stop its too rapid flight. So imprudent are we that we wander in the times which are not ours and do not think of the only one which belongs to us; and so idle are we that we dream of those times which are no more and thoughtlessly overlook that which alone exists."
~ Blaise Pascal
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Friday, October 15, 2010
Some memories are realities...
... and are better than anything that can ever happen to one again.
Cather Chronicle V
Nights like these foretell ghost
breaths through caffeinated sunlight,
facing east in dew-drenched waking
hours. The miles of barbed wire aching
to hold so many things close to us have
no comprehension of how useless they
really are. Nothing here belongs to us,
rather we to it. This. This is a manifesto
of heartbeats and things unsaid.
Here, in the middle of everything, two
stand alone, the red grass swallowing their
ankles, asking, pleading for more. Her hair
like a wild thing about her shoulders. More
animal than human and, somehow, more
beautiful than both. His eyes full of melancholy,
learning how to live from everything living,
the only way they know how.
Cather Chronicle V
Nights like these foretell ghost
breaths through caffeinated sunlight,
facing east in dew-drenched waking
hours. The miles of barbed wire aching
to hold so many things close to us have
no comprehension of how useless they
really are. Nothing here belongs to us,
rather we to it. This. This is a manifesto
of heartbeats and things unsaid.
Here, in the middle of everything, two
stand alone, the red grass swallowing their
ankles, asking, pleading for more. Her hair
like a wild thing about her shoulders. More
animal than human and, somehow, more
beautiful than both. His eyes full of melancholy,
learning how to live from everything living,
the only way they know how.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
G.K. Chesterton
Then he said,
"But there are four lamps of thanksgiving always before me. The first is for my creation out of the same earth with such a woman as you. The second is that I have not, with all my faults, gone after strange women. You cannot think how a man's self restraint is rewarded in this. The third is that I have tried to love everything alive, and it has been but a dim preparation for loving you. The fourth is... but no words can express that. Here ends my previous existence. Take it: it led me to you."
"But there are four lamps of thanksgiving always before me. The first is for my creation out of the same earth with such a woman as you. The second is that I have not, with all my faults, gone after strange women. You cannot think how a man's self restraint is rewarded in this. The third is that I have tried to love everything alive, and it has been but a dim preparation for loving you. The fourth is... but no words can express that. Here ends my previous existence. Take it: it led me to you."