Where does a story truly begin? In life there are seldom clear-cut beginnings, those moments where we can, in looking back, say that everything started. Yet there are moments when fate intersects with our daily lives, setting in motion a sequence of events whose outcome we could never had forseen. Some people skip through life; some people are dragged through it. I sometimes wonder whether we are moving through time or if time is moving through us...
Some nights, alone, I think of her. And some nights, alone, she thinks of me, at least I hope she does. Some nights these thoughts, separated by miles, occur at the same objective moment, and we are connected without ever knowing it. Then other days late at night, I think about all the things that have been, all the things that haven't been, and all the things yet to be. I wonder if my heart could explode into a billion tiny pieces and scatter themselves, if I could live on all over the world. I wonder if this world will ever make sense to me, if I will truly understand anything, and if there's really anything to understand at all...
I'll have books and poetry and writing in my life forever, of that I am sure. I'll also have adventures, and love, love above all. But not the artful postures of love, not playful and poetical games of love for the amusement of an evening, but love that overthrows life. Unbiddable, ungovernable - like a riot in the heart, for which there is no cure, come ruin or rupture. Love - like there has never been in a play...
