9/13/10

'Either all, or nothing!'

This idea fascinates me for I feel as though it to be the source of  the beauty, the ideal, of that which exists in such a world, that which on my better days I am able to see, that which you, at a moment in my life when the idea of either all, or nothing, seemed a rather futile pursuit, have, once again, given form to words, yet as beautiful as it is, and as beautiful as I feel it to be, it is very much a love within myself, and accordingly, the source from which much anguish rests, yet is it not unreasonable then to love as such? But are we not unreasonable creatures...

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In love we are selfless, and any and all want of self, ours or another, disappears, and like the cloud do we drift upon the gentle draft of our lover's breath...

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12/11/10

The dirge which is December, this December, florid and rosy cheeks, yes, but how cloudy and cold as each morning a blanket of frost glazes all which lay bare, dormant, outside. In winter the mornings are the most difficult if only for the reason that the temperature is most disagreeable and unrelenting. To rise before the sun has opened her eyes is beyond my understanding, to rise and to then go outside is a step closer towards insanity. Each day should start no earlier then noon and end no later then six, and food, always food, good food, for dinner to warm the heart and leave the body exhausted, for there is nothing quite as pleasant as a full belly and a nap to follow...

Began Proust's On Art and Literature today and the prologue is enough to put tears to my eyes as he systematically draws for me how it is and when, from intellect and memory, we are able to draw from moments since forgotten in our past. I see as he forms the groundwork for Remembrance of Things Past, yet it is a rusk for the moment and in Remembrance it is the ever so famous madeline cakes of his grandmother...