Post soundtrack: Ill follow the sun by The Beatles This is a rare gem, my friend sent it to me this morning, it has been on repeat all day. The lyrics are bittersweet but so beautiful
Pay pal is driving me insane.
Last night I caught up with a very good friend of mine, who I haven´t spoken to for a year. My friend did know anything what had happened in my life and vice versa. Turns out my friend had also a best friend of over a decade walk out on them suddenly without warning, together we sat and talked. My friend is much older and wiser and has been living alone in a beautiful big home. I can truly call this person a friend and we were so shocked when we could have been there for each other, instead we both secluded.
Today I felt the sun on my face for the first time, I made the apartment mine, I claimed it. I put many pictures and erased every trace and memory of what was of the past. It is now filled with me again. My friend told me that I used to be bubbliest happiest person who could entertain and dazzle a party, I had confidence and was strong. My friend thought I lost a part of who I was as a person and I think my friend was right. I lost that spontaneity, that wildness, that laughter and that confidence to walk into a room and have it in my hand. So today I been decorating walls with pictures and old letters and memories from friends and good memories to constantly remind me of who I am and what how I spread cheer to others. Before I left my friend gave me something, he is a connoisseur of art and literature. He read me a quote from Captain Corelli’s Mandolin by Louis de Bernières. I must say I never heard anything more beautiful and made more sense about love. It´s exactly what I been saying all along. But not as beautiful as this.
Love is a temporary madness,
it erupts like volcanoes and then subsides.
And when it subsides you have to make a decision.
You have to work out whether your roots have so entwined together
that it is inconceivable that you should ever part.
Because this is what love is.
Love is not breathlessness,
it is not excitement,
it is not the promulgation of eternal passion.
That is just being “in love” which any fool can do.
Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away,
and this is both an art and a fortunate accident.
Those that truly love, have roots that grow towards each other underground,
and when all the pretty blossoms have fallen from their branches,
they find that they are one tree and not two.