When something has stirred something within you - a nostalgia for what can never be - you first dive in and eventually sink into this feeling of being out-of-touch. Underwater, you exist. But life is less real. Words out of your mouth cease to come across as they should. The order of things are muddled. Perhaps this world - the world that is real - is not mine to live in. Some place somewhere, some forgotten time, is where one should be. But no great effort can make that happen. At some point, you know you got to swim back up to surface. 

A story is not just a series of events; an action/inaction that leads to another; a character talking or thinking or doing. It is that pool of light at a time of the day. It is a stranger's face. And it is in seeing these images instead of words that we come to be there in that moment, in that story. In turn, when someone falls in love, you do, too. 

I am never one for the explicit, although mostly I speak in simple terms. The subtlety of things is where one finds the most warmth. The grandiose glares and is hard to miss at first sight, which leaves no room for that crucial second look. At the second glance, you go beyond just looking. You start to notice that there, for example, in that person is a seed of contempt, of arrogance, of a quality pitiable, but also that of love, of growing wisdom, of calm. 

There is much to be said. But I won't speak in length of how the edges are soften or worn. Some thoughts, when expressed prematurely, become cheap and common. Yet I can answer this: quo vadis? Where are you going? Here: at a place overlooking the blue sea, with love in my bones, a changed man, and a confidence that all is real. 

with love,

abelink