Sunday

How life goes on as usual.

Can there be contentment in missing someone? I guess so. If the greatest fortune is to love and be loved in return, then I guess life would be unending in satisfaction, because it is so very human to love.

Life would never be mundane perhaps, with so many abstractions to pursue. Hope, freedom, ambition, love. Somehow all these ideals seem much more significant now that you are not around. Maybe you have always so distracted me with the little realities that I never really did have time to stop and look at the big picture. Or maybe I am just indulging myself with these vague concepts to pass the hours when you are not there to keep life simple.

Of course, life might already be simple, structurally, in the way that it construes seconds, minutes, hours till you come to put time on hold. A simplistic constant waiting it is then, an ironic juxtaposition of turbulent emotions that seize me without warning. Life is really a bag full of ironies.

The irony of separation and togetherness, how two hands hitting the keyboard simultaneously can never be one, and how though we might think of each other at different times, the same pool of memories lies still, quiet, untouched, except by us.