(no subject)
I have it on my desk presently - a heartening, vibrant source of colour, lying atop my stack of books that I might glance over and see it easily, reaching out every so often to delicately touch its petals. I will have to press it, I know, if I am to preserve it, and tuck it away between the pages of a thick volume. For now, however, I will keep my flower within my sight, for it is very real, very cherished proof that this evening did indeed take place.
It blooms abundantly in his country, he informs me, and when he chanced to find it here as well, he decided it would be an apt contribution to the growing collection of mementos Lucy and I have. It is absolutely lovely - such a delicate blend of symmetry and shade, brightness and fragrance as I draw it nearer. There, I am crying again, and I must not spoil my gift or this page with tearstains. The little flower is supple but I must not forget how fragile it is. It may be able to survive the climates of two very distinct countries, but I am certain it could not withstand another liberal dousing on my part, at least not twice in the same evening. Since I was a child I have not been inclined to tears, but something - that is, I felt as though something had snapped within me, there is no other way to describe it. It rose until I could do nothing but give way to it, almost childishly - and indeed, I felt childish, helplessly so. Even after the crying subsided, I still felt so very small. It is a terrible feeling, that of vulnerability. I do not think any prospect is quite so mortifying. Yet I did not feel such, despite whatever else I may have felt. Small, yes, but not vulnerable. There was a comfort in the release, in the knowledge that only one other witnessed it, and that he neither thought it weakness nor foolishness - that he would have allowed me to weep on his shoulder all evening, if I required it, enfolded warmly like a small child. That I was protected. That I was safe. I was precisely where I ought to have been; the relief I felt is such that only came because I was with -
Perhaps I have lingered too long.
So I will press my flower after all, and keep it safely in the scrapbook, that this night and its memories might be preserved. And perhaps, with confessions and gifts alike confined to the silent pages, I may at length sleep. I have not even thought of retiring, but I know I ought to - “to sleep, perchance to dream.” And now I am reciting Shakespeare. Heavens, from tears to poetry! My journal has become something of a chasm or an abyss. Good night, then, dear abyss...much good may the rest do us both.
It blooms abundantly in his country, he informs me, and when he chanced to find it here as well, he decided it would be an apt contribution to the growing collection of mementos Lucy and I have. It is absolutely lovely - such a delicate blend of symmetry and shade, brightness and fragrance as I draw it nearer. There, I am crying again, and I must not spoil my gift or this page with tearstains. The little flower is supple but I must not forget how fragile it is. It may be able to survive the climates of two very distinct countries, but I am certain it could not withstand another liberal dousing on my part, at least not twice in the same evening. Since I was a child I have not been inclined to tears, but something - that is, I felt as though something had snapped within me, there is no other way to describe it. It rose until I could do nothing but give way to it, almost childishly - and indeed, I felt childish, helplessly so. Even after the crying subsided, I still felt so very small. It is a terrible feeling, that of vulnerability. I do not think any prospect is quite so mortifying. Yet I did not feel such, despite whatever else I may have felt. Small, yes, but not vulnerable. There was a comfort in the release, in the knowledge that only one other witnessed it, and that he neither thought it weakness nor foolishness - that he would have allowed me to weep on his shoulder all evening, if I required it, enfolded warmly like a small child. That I was protected. That I was safe. I was precisely where I ought to have been; the relief I felt is such that only came because I was with -
Perhaps I have lingered too long.
So I will press my flower after all, and keep it safely in the scrapbook, that this night and its memories might be preserved. And perhaps, with confessions and gifts alike confined to the silent pages, I may at length sleep. I have not even thought of retiring, but I know I ought to - “to sleep, perchance to dream.” And now I am reciting Shakespeare. Heavens, from tears to poetry! My journal has become something of a chasm or an abyss. Good night, then, dear abyss...much good may the rest do us both.