When you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And his his face amid a crowd of stars.
- William Butler Yeats
Thursday 9 October 2008
Of Spontaneity
Perhaps it was wrong to start off so spontaneously. Words exchanged; were they of merit? What truths did hers hold and why did I oblige so meaninglessly? Nonetheless I continued. And I would promise art; but what value would these lines-drawn-upon-lines have when it was done?
What of the outreach? To make something out of something so very insignificant at the time? Why interfere in something that was not fated... or perhaps it was? One can never be so sure. There was no turning back in those words but it was done. To go out on a limb, to get to the fruit. This gamble, this risk, was it all worth it?
And so it was set, maybe not in stone, but in the moveable slate of time. A day of promise and a day of reckoning. This was glad news at the time and so it reflected upon character. The risks continued but in such insignicant manner: coffee and perhaps more words built upon these. And they were met with open arms, the suggestion not shot down in pre-flight for once. The happiest days of life.
The words of such days were so very profound. The etched promises in the compromising slate of time. Of future, her words echoing the sentiment that could never be said. This future, this good future, set out in what seemed to be stone. No wrenches in these plans, only the finality of wishful thinking. Shared drinks and shared meals and to return to normality, only until the next day.
Oh, to be rendered null by the visions that were seen! To have requests shot down in pre-flight, following the context that coffee had laid out! And to see that these words were quiet lies in the fabric of her weaving. To see the coffees and the talks and the meals thrown to nothingness! To see them whittle away to the nothingness from which they were drawn. And conclusions were drawn in this haze of words said and unsaid.
So the inevitability of it all came crashing down, with profound force. This was the end and yet hope for a better future was considered. Perhaps a rough patch or perhaps just distance but, as they say, absense makes the heart grow fonder. And so the week was left and nothing came about. No words were exchanged.
The promised Saturday came about. A promise of hope and of bonds sat on the threshold in wait for those few simple words. But there was no return now: the guess of inevitability would be correct. Though the words did take flight, they were rendered null by her own. And that was it.
It had gone as quickly as it had come.
Oh, spontaneity.
What of the outreach? To make something out of something so very insignificant at the time? Why interfere in something that was not fated... or perhaps it was? One can never be so sure. There was no turning back in those words but it was done. To go out on a limb, to get to the fruit. This gamble, this risk, was it all worth it?
And so it was set, maybe not in stone, but in the moveable slate of time. A day of promise and a day of reckoning. This was glad news at the time and so it reflected upon character. The risks continued but in such insignicant manner: coffee and perhaps more words built upon these. And they were met with open arms, the suggestion not shot down in pre-flight for once. The happiest days of life.
The words of such days were so very profound. The etched promises in the compromising slate of time. Of future, her words echoing the sentiment that could never be said. This future, this good future, set out in what seemed to be stone. No wrenches in these plans, only the finality of wishful thinking. Shared drinks and shared meals and to return to normality, only until the next day.
Oh, to be rendered null by the visions that were seen! To have requests shot down in pre-flight, following the context that coffee had laid out! And to see that these words were quiet lies in the fabric of her weaving. To see the coffees and the talks and the meals thrown to nothingness! To see them whittle away to the nothingness from which they were drawn. And conclusions were drawn in this haze of words said and unsaid.
So the inevitability of it all came crashing down, with profound force. This was the end and yet hope for a better future was considered. Perhaps a rough patch or perhaps just distance but, as they say, absense makes the heart grow fonder. And so the week was left and nothing came about. No words were exchanged.
The promised Saturday came about. A promise of hope and of bonds sat on the threshold in wait for those few simple words. But there was no return now: the guess of inevitability would be correct. Though the words did take flight, they were rendered null by her own. And that was it.
It had gone as quickly as it had come.
Oh, spontaneity.
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