Days of homesickness are insignificant per se. They just pass - like they always have - to simply give way to routine and occasional satisfaction. Though the terrible truth of such days is the intuition of future they breed inside the heart of the sufferer: A future when I am bereft of loved ones and close friends. Dark days when I shall miserably stand against the tide of loneliness with no where yet to lean my shoulder. I am speaking of days of old age, which only seem to be far away, but are in truth a few blinks away from reality.

May you never leave your home, nor ever your home leave you to yourself.

I am brooding over those magical momemts when we embraced, listened to Paul Cardall and wept. What marvelous moments. My teardrops were utterly shed in magical confusion. Why did I weep - I am obliged to ask this of myself.  

I wept under the immensity of the moment. I was rendered insignificant in her arms, saddened by the inevitability of separation, overwhelmed by the scent of her skin, absorbed im the magic of the music of my feelings for her, inspired by the prospect of a better future, and in want of salvation from past mistakes. 

I believe this to be a representation of 'love'. This may not make sense at all, but is this not the very idea of being in love? Is it not that the very confusion over this beautiful and magical incident is what makes love ever sweeter and more desirable? 

I remember one day when I was thinking about love, trying very hard to make sense of this most precious of human capabilities, I came up with a formula based on my past mistakes: love is a potion made from selflessness,  immense hope,  great optimism, and passion with a final touch of lust. 

But still, this is still an effort to try to make sense of love. well, if I should feel so confident about my potion, then I have absolutely underestimated Woody Allen who, with all his genius, has been trying to define love - evermore in vain - over decades. So far his conclusion has been 'whatever works'. So maybe when I was weeping in her arms out of sheer confusion, it was my way of showing love. Maybe not. whatever that might have been, it seems to be working out. I'm in love and it matters. 

True happiness is only a distant longing for the past, and yet a nostalgia which never really occurred. Only that you thought it did manifests its being. So to set it in the future and desiring it as a prospect is only a vain effort, and an inevitable mistake to replace 'success' with 'happiness'.

 
 

These days and months, amongst all the new things that are on the verge of happening to me, my life is mostly articulated by desire and longing for things not long past. While my mind is set on future - on the coming planned years that are to complete me as a man - my senses are driven by painful flows of longing, which begin and finish my hours of wakefulness before drifting me into bittersweet  dreams. Indeed, such are curious days when 'time' and 'memory' are equally my sincere allies and notorious enemies.

Remembrance of the resonance of our entwined heartbeats in those autumn nights transcend me to ecstatic moments of peace, which I cherish even if clouded in melancholy. Such are divine moments when I - in between the frequent pangs of desire and remorse - am promised world peace.

 

I have always been young only on the outside; and had responsibilities as those of an older man. Now I can realize how the social and biological burdens tormented me because of this early mental and emotional maturity. And alas; for a weak yet responsible and caring individual like me, it was only later that I realized how my tiny unimportant mistakes came to shipwreck my soul and cast me forlorn in the midst of a tempest right when I was supposed to cherish my dreams.

Quite normally there comes a day in the life a teenage boy when he, for all the wrong reasons, begins to realize that his innocence is the most terrible burden.