taste the moment

i remember the day it happened. i called you and we cried. you brought us flowers. we cuddled and we cried. the others drowned their sorrows with alcohol while we cuddled some more. cried some more. he was your dad too. 

i saw you once in january, maybe. once in feburary, or was it march? always on my own accord. 

i think, now, after all this time its safe to say i love you more than you love me. it’s been like that for a while but i had pretended not to realise. i had convinced myself you weren’t changing.

i wish you had been here for me when i needed you the most. the first day wasn’t the hardest. i wish you were here for me now.

sometimes, i wish we could go back to being younger and freeze time in our bliss and innocence.

ignorance is bliss

ignorance is deadly

death is ignorant

and i’m sad to say that i think you might be too.

But this is what young people are so often and so disastrously wrong in doing they (who by their very nature are impatient) fling themselves at each other when love takes hold of them, they scatter themselves, just as they are, in all their messiness, disorder, bewilderment… : And what can happen then? What can life do with this heap of half-broken things that they call their communion and that they would like to call their happiness, if that were possible, and their future? And so each of them loses himself for the sake of the other person, and loses the other, and many others who still wanted to come. And loses the vast distances and possibilities, gives up the approaching and fleeing of gentle, prescient Things in exchange for an unfruitful confusion, out of which nothing more can come; nothing but a bit of disgust, disappointment, and poverty, and the escape into one of the many conventions that have been put up in great numbers like public shelters on this most dangerous road. No area of human experience is so extensively provided with conventions as this one is: there are live-preservers of the most varied invention, boats and water wings; society has been able to create refuges of very sort, for since it preferred to take love-life as an amusement, it also had to give it an easy form, cheap, safe, and sure, as public amusements are.It is true that many young people who love falsely,i.e., simply surrendering themselves and giving up their solitude (the average person will of course always go on doing that - ), feel oppressed by their failure and want to make the situation they have landed in livable and fruitful in their own, personal way -. For their nature tells them that the questions of love, even more than everything else that is important, cannot be resolved publicly and according to this or that agreement; that they are questions, intimate questions from one human being to another, which in any case require a new, special, wholly personal answer -. But how can they, who have already flung themselves together and can no longer tell whose outlines are whose, who thus no longer possess anything of their won, how can they find a way out of themselves, out of the depths of their already buried solitude? They act out of mutual helplessness, and then if, whit the best of intentions, they try to escape the conventions that is approaching them (marriage, for example), they fall into the clutches of some less obvious but just as deadly conventional solution. For then everything around them is - convention. Wherever people act out of a prematurely fused, muddy communion, every action is conventional: every relation that such confusion leads to has its own convention, however unusual i.e., in the ordinary sense immoral - it may be; even separating would be a conventional step, an impersonal, accidental decision without strength and without fruit.

- Letters to a Young Poet, Rilke

this pretentious world is all too much.