"The Habit of Loving"

Photo Credits: The Simply Luxurious Life

I bought a beautiful hard-cover copy of Doris Lessing's Stories. I love the weight of the book as I placed it on my lap or side-wise on the bed. I've aways wanted to write short stories, but it's a very difficult medium. Sometimes people ask me what does this story mean? And, I want to laugh, because I'm probably not the right person to ever say what something means. For me, short stories embody a feeling. They are like a dream - very short, very powerful or quiet, it really all depends, but it takes you out of your world and makes you live something vivid for that short moment. Not quite a song, but sometimes I have a feeling that I cannot describe - I would know it, it's just like A in that short story when A did that! Some short stories have made me cry. I'm always grateful for them... i suppose everyone will have that something special to make them feel human and words always have been the key for me.

I've just read "The Habit of Loving" in the collection... and I know, that I have not experienced heartbreak, at least not in its complete painful form, because I could not understand the emotional depths of the characters. I felt really sad, looking inwards, for I was still a child.

She had been living beside him, George, and he had no idea at all of her unhappiness. He went over to her, put his old arms around her, and she stood with her head on his shoulder and wept. For the first time, George thought, they were together. They sat by the fire a long time that night, drinking, smoking, and her head was on his knee and he stroked it, and thought that now, at last, she had been admitted into the world of emotion and they would learn to be really together.

Do I want to be admitted into this world of emotion?

“The woman who follows the crowd will usually get no further than the crowd. The woman who walks alone is likely to find herself in places no one has ever been.”

–Albert Einstein

The World still revolves around You

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Let's go back

Let's go back. Let's get lost again. Let's buy the bus coupons from the mini stands in the middle of the train station. Let's grab our bags and run and catch our bus. Before we have to wait fifteen minutes again. Let's pretend we can actually pronounce "vondellan" and watch as the bicycles roll by. Let's grab a stroopwaffle and go on a long train journey. Let's never grow old. Let's grow old together. Let me wash some grapes, while you do whatever you do. Seedless. Let's run down to the river and count baby ducklings. Remember to bring the loaf of bread. Let's sit on the train, and wait for the announcer to say the journey is delayed yet again because of objects on the train tracks (identity of objects never to be revealed). Let's go back. Let's go back before it's too late. Before, everything changes. Even as I write this, I know some things are too late. Oh, but let's still go back. Let's do all the things we said we should do but never did. Let's make a fool of ourselves. In the only ways we know how. Let's go back. Let's go back and fall in love.

Grateful

It's a little ironic. The person I want to seem most impressive to, well, he doesn't require me to do a thing at all to be impressed.

A Little Lonely

I feel sad that most of the people whose blogs I read no longer write.

Nothing Compares 2 You

My favourite song of the moment is Sinead O' Connor's "Nothing Compares 2 U". I don't know why but it reminded me of Bratislava. When we were there, everything was foggy. It was as if we were walking in mist. There were no attractions. Everything was closed. They had this funny exhibition on the street, cows after cows after cows. I laughed. We decided to try the local speciality - dumplings of some kind. There was no one in the bar. The bar was beautiful. I can't remember how it looked like, but I remembered it had many portraits... of beautiful blue, sea-blue, I think the people in the paintings were underwater, swimming with fishes. Slowly, everything becomes a blur. We see pictures, but they don't seem real. As my memories disappear, the only real thing I have is you.