Wednesday, June 25, 2008
It wasn't quite summer, but it wasn't spring. It wasn't nighttime, but it wasn't morning. In the middle of a country, in the middle of a city, in the middle of a street, a cold wind blew. Two people shivered. Under the orange light of a street lamp, they were the only two people in the world, and the only thing to do was hold each other. So they did. They held each other against the wind, against the past, against everything that had come between them. They held one another so tight against all of these things it seemed impossible that they would ever let go. They were thinking thoughts that weren't really thoughts at all, but memories in the fleeting form of sounds, colors, smells, sighs, laughs; all the good things and bad things in the universe. This kind of embrace had happened before and it would happen again. Actually, it was happening somewhere else at that exact moment. But they didn't care. They couldn't care and they wouldn't care, because for them, there was no such thing as time or space, or light or dark, or here or there. The wind was blowing and it was cold and that was all they knew. They held each other to forget, but also to remember and commemorate, to make sure the order of things understood that there was such a thing as love.