hedonism is not just sex and drugs
i believe in moments of pure pleasure, shared. in the end thats all i want to remember of life, and life itself becomes a neverending effort to multiply those moments to infinity. all stress is the fear of losing those and never finding them again.
me and heather photographing the artichoke (and many others, of which that one is only emblematic). and now so far away i think we will never have that back. when we see each other, though it is still there, it is finite and thus tinged with loss.
countless moments in that blue and orange city life was a work of art, every person every dinner every teatime discussion. a thousand saturated snapshots in my head, always something sparkling on their wrists or in their hair, sunlight through windows, the yellow elephant teapot.
and then a few years with only brief flirtations. that weekend at the cottage, the time when we were tour guides, the decadent anniversary of someone else. and an emptiness in my chest i still cant explain. the real world has no time for the joy of living.
i am working to make time dilate for myself and for us. to make the moments endure. morning coffee, afternoon sun, dancing with helen, the ride that ended in goose poop, the light through the trees in berlin.
something strange though, about my ability to live now when i know that now will not last. i am only truly here when i know there is an end. when i know i am not trapped. i seek instability.
what use is achievement in a vacuum? it takes so much work sometimes, to gather round those who matter, for the selfish need to feel the bubble they form too strong to break.
me and heather photographing the artichoke (and many others, of which that one is only emblematic). and now so far away i think we will never have that back. when we see each other, though it is still there, it is finite and thus tinged with loss.
countless moments in that blue and orange city life was a work of art, every person every dinner every teatime discussion. a thousand saturated snapshots in my head, always something sparkling on their wrists or in their hair, sunlight through windows, the yellow elephant teapot.
and then a few years with only brief flirtations. that weekend at the cottage, the time when we were tour guides, the decadent anniversary of someone else. and an emptiness in my chest i still cant explain. the real world has no time for the joy of living.
i am working to make time dilate for myself and for us. to make the moments endure. morning coffee, afternoon sun, dancing with helen, the ride that ended in goose poop, the light through the trees in berlin.
something strange though, about my ability to live now when i know that now will not last. i am only truly here when i know there is an end. when i know i am not trapped. i seek instability.
what use is achievement in a vacuum? it takes so much work sometimes, to gather round those who matter, for the selfish need to feel the bubble they form too strong to break.