And time continues to make fools of us all. It reminds us that it is a river. The river that you can’t step in twice. Because the second time it’s not the same river. What’s more, we are not the same people.
We cash in our chips as we watch our silhouettes, shadows of our ephemeral freedom, dance the dance of the insane and the lost. We watch them serenade the ghosts of our pasts. We dissolve into their wild silences, their restless ecstasy. We inhale the misty breath of our yesterdays vanishing into tomorrows, behind the smokescreen of a slow melancholy that shimmers before our tired eyes.
But we do it elegantly. Because we are a lady.
Our songs never lose their soul. Our eyes never glaze over. Our jokes never grow old. Our cigarettes never go out. And our smiles remain in sepia tinted surprise. In the dream that is our togetherness.
We are beautiful, because we are imperfect. and we laugh at what we are, and what we were. and we tell stories of what we do. what we wished we could do. What we did once, and what we can’t do anymore; little stories, big stories, colourful stories, angry stories, stories of defiance, and of letting go.
Stories left out in the sun too long, or stories that should be told on a cold, winter’s night next to a crackling fire. Stories that have turned into silences, hidden behind locked doors or dark corridors. Stories that burst into existence, like an awkward laugh in a serious conversation. Stories that belly dance in the moonlight with nothing on, but the spark of the moment. Stories that erupt before us like an epiphany, or a coldplay song.
stories that have died in us. stories that we will make. Stories that we do not know we have. And stories that do not end.
We will live in the illusory dream of a promise we have made to the night – to never let it end. To bury our heads in its infinitely colourful embrace. We will drown in the mad laughter of nostalgia, and thread our needles with the wild fabric of drunken nights sewn together with a careless smile. We will grow old, but only with the hedonistic rush of a river in spate.
because the city lives in the marketplace, and the evening dies at the picket gate. Because the night begins with a lover’s sigh, and melancholy is so much more than boredom turned inside out.
Because the first glance is headier,
than a lifetime of gazing.
Because the fervid thrill of not knowing is so much more beautiful, so much more poignant, than the stale breath of pragmatism.
We will not forget the that a morning kiss is very different from a kiss at dusk, or at the dying of day.
We know that the first is the lingering aroma of home, a window into the blissful universe of being with someone. the second, a reassurance, a deft stamp of certainty on the contractual agreement that love becomes.
We know that the first is more beautiful because it is the feather in flight, lost to the whims of a naïve breeze.
The second, a stubbing of our dreams
in life’s ashtray.
Pascal campion: dancing up a storm