Picaturi de parfum ce amintesc de o alta lume... trecut si viitor, toate adunate intr-un singur suflet ce traieste.

luni, ianuarie 25, 2010

Remembering Future

“-Tell me the story again, grandpa. Tell me about the waiting, teach me how to wait and if it deserves to. Tell me how you felt. I’m big enough now.”

-“You can’t be taught how to wait, son. It’s something you feel viscerally and accept immediately. It’s beyond reason, beyond will, beyond comprehension. It’s just a need, an inner imperative.

Waiting is when you choose a clock, remove its batteries and leave it like that until she comes back. Regardless of how other time measuring devices function, you know that your actual time, your interior time, the time of your being is the one showed by the frozen tongues of that clock. Your time is still. Your time awaits.
Waiting is a larger-than-life passion.
Waiting does not involve hope, since it would cause anxiousness. Waiting is serene, neither optimistic nor pessimistic. Just serene.
Waiting is a merge of dreams and telepathy, of flashbacks and questions, of “what-could-have-been-s” and imagination.
Waiting is when you delude yourself that thousands and thousands of kilometers can vanish at a single command of her heels.
Waiting is constantly picturing the sound of her steps and the warmth of her embrace upon arrival.
Waiting is not feeling afraid of void and vainness. Waiting excludes the sensation that you waste yourself. You never waste, you gain intensity.
Waiting is seeing her traits in everyone else so you can never replace her image.
Waiting is not fervent devotement but the truffle of one’s absence.
Waiting sheds light, lends braveness. Waiting reinforces.
Waiting clearly separates depth from superficiality.
Waiting is never short. Waiting means being idle for years, for eternities in a row and still being able to hear everywhere shouted whispers claiming that it’s worthwhile.
Waiting brings the guarantee that you can stand the test of time.
Waiting brings, as well, maturity.
Waiting is the wrinkled old man, in a rugged black trench, who strolls on the beach, scrutinizing the horizon with his piercing green eyes.
Waiting is the coquette old lady who bares the remnants of a once dazzling beauty. Waiting is the youth in her eyes, contoured with green kohl. Waiting is her restlessness when she depicts the emergence of a train. Waiting is the resignation on her face when she sits down on the bench, disappointed that, yet again, no familiar face had alighted from the vehicle.
Waiting are their never-again-holding-hands.
Waiting was my all."

-“Is waiting love, grandpa?”