I mused today on the advent of photographs. It’s a wonderful, terrible invention. One that saves memories of family moments, births and weddings and picnics and graduations, and one that chronicles horrors and wars and brutality. One that allows staring at the lips and eyes of a crush longer than you ever could in reality, or the delicate lines and traces of breasts of a woman who isn’t your wife. One that savours memories, breeds lust, rescues beauty, relives terror. And these thoughts had never occurred to me until today, when I realized, once again after a whole entire what is it now? Right around 68 hours…that I am already in too deep. That I’m already breathing in the vapours of a cologne so intoxicating, quite literally. That memories and angst and anger and secrets and compassion mingle into much stronger feelings of passion and ardor at speeds faster than a bullet, for me.
So perhaps it’s too late, or perhaps there is a small, small, small chance it is just beginning.
I shall hold my breath and wait.