Dating : Breathe

Seeing all beginnings and endings is a confusing thing.

I breathe as if it were the first breath I’ve ever drawn — slightly painful but proof of glorious life. As soon as I open my eyes, the room stops spinning. Beautiful night kisses my forehead.

And I can feel you on the other side of the planet.

I can almost trace the lines of you and,
if I strain my ears,
hear the clear notes of your voice
as if in a tangent room.
If I concentrate, I can be with you –
be in your day when it is my night,
be in your winter when it is my summer.
I can smell the dish you are cooking
and smooth your brow into sleep.

Do you still talk with your hands, in twirls and flourishes?

Do you still surveil the outside world with mistrust and suspicion? I have never understood that — to me the world is beautiful, in all its imperfect glory.

January 1st 1792
This song, which has been like a drug, is running out; coming to its end. I venture out into the golden night, past stalls, playing children, talking women, animals, and men who wish to sell me things I do not need. My eager eyes devour them and there is something in me that makes them look away.

Walking down narrow street passages and across bridges of worn stone, all of time moves slowly with me — the lights shimmer a little more intently, the shadows are deeper, and the ancient places I roam seem young again. The layers of centuries have left their mark — all with their own unique stamp of beauty and sense of place. This building I sit in exudes history from its pores but the people here are too busy and bustling in their everyday lives to notice my unnatural curiosity.

On the way back home, following the same narrow roads, time seems to slow down even more and I am filled with longing for you. The sensation is as if I were intoxicated before even taking the the drug; the longing and anticipation all rolled into one.

Each time a new beginning.

I fall into the abyss of excess as the night rolls into dawn. Such ecstasy. Such ecstasy. Run me through your veins.

Yet you are not here with me.

January 5th 1792
I am here again. Not with you but thinking of you. Always. I want to cross the bridge of space between us in an instant, brace your face in my hands and place my lips on yours. 
Let the circles of our lives intersect. Let us dance through intricate steps of knowingness. My longing for this increases until only sleep can offer safe harbour.

January 8th 1792
I wake to music. It comes from nowhere and everywhere, at the same time. I stumble out of bed to view the sunrise and find that you are here. With me.

January 17th 1792
We play out the rituals, unshakable now, and I am love drawn into the wilderness of your heart. 
Show me your own inventions, newly risen out of time. Show me how you have spent your days. And nights. And years.

January 22nd 1792
We want and want and want. You in your night and me in my day. Shall we meet at twilight and take what we crave…the hunger tears at us, makes us more animal than human. Takes us out of ourselves and deep into ourselves and beyond ourselves. It scores our very being until all we are is hunger.
Only in those insular moments of meeting and merging can we find peace.

January 28th 1927
We struggle on. Til death itself looks over us but refuses, as ever, to take us.

This is what we are born to.

This is life. Undulating. Pulsating. Beating to a certain rhythm. Full of the soft curves of longing. And an incredible need.

January 31st 1972
The only thing that is truly immortal is music.

C.S.Lewis wrote of the universe being formed from a single, thrumming note. It is that same note that pushes through all life and time and keeps us striving toward an unseen future. Summit. End.