I know not who you are, nor how I came to find you

What do you do when the Disney prince is just too charming too resist?

Alone

Each lover has a theory of his own
About the difference between the ache
Of being with his love, and being alone:

Why what, when dreaming, is dear flesh and bone
That really stirs the senses, when awake,
Appears a simulacrum of his own.

Narcissus disbelieves in the unknown;
He cannot join his image in the lake
So long as he assumes he is alone.

The child, the waterfall, the fire, the stone,
Are always up to miscief, though, and take
The universe for granted as their own.

The elderly, like Proust, are always prone
To think of love as a subjective fake;
The more they love, the more they feel alone.

Whatever view we hold, it must be shown
Why every lover has a wish to make
Some other kind of otherness his own:
Perhaps, in fact, we never are alone.

W. H. Auden

Would you make it all right?

"If you wanted, you could make it all worth it, worth it, worth it"

ADHD lessons, 2026 edition

- Some songs hit it just right, for an amount of time, and they must be repeated ad nauseam. Funny that.

- Unconventional tools actually work? So why not use them.
- We are everywhere, like a hidden community inside another, and we are more similar than I ever thought. Belonging like this feels good.
- I need something to fidget with...

And don't you ever forget it.

Love is a crazy game

 "Now that I've lost the best friend that I've ever had"

(Twice in cinema. Once in 70mm, another in digital. Once with my heart on my sleeve, another with a broken heart. I cried in the same scene both times, when Troy fell, the real fall. I am not sure what this means, but I know it means something. In any case: thank you, Nolan, for bringing another little piece of me back, and you don't even know me.

PS: And of f course I would not be the only one going to it twice. Should have guessed. Years after a female doppelganger, I was not expecting a male one.)

Have you ever fallen in love with a place?

Maybe you remember the first introduction, the quick glance you spared because your curiosity piqued, forming the beginning of a question. You were a little intrigued, that was all. You couldn’t possibly know yet what it would become for you. When the second time came around, you allowed yourself a longer look, you walked away with some recollection, a little fondness. Then it’s the third time, and you daringly toss your legs over the window sill, step out into the open. You allow yourself to stay longer this time, and savour the moment. Familiarity kicks in. The lights of the city shine brighter against the darkness of the street below, and there’s a softness to the cacophony of traffic.

Along comes the day you give it your heart. You don’t realise it right away, of course; one never knows one is offering their heart until after the fact. Bewildered, you try to retrace your steps only to find out you must surely have left your heart back there – in that place. Perhaps it happened when you first pulled back the curtain and the early morning breeze waltzed in, cooling you down. Maybe it was when you decided to step outside again, drawing the curtain closed behind you lest you wake him up, and you watched the sun rise behind the tall buildings.

You don’t remember noticing anything but the fact that you fit there so precisely (isn’t that funny?), a book on your folded knees and a sense of contentment. You do not usually feel every moment but you are present now, you are living in this moment called the wait, it arrived already named. The wait, which is deliciously chilly and inextricably tied to a time, and this place. It is bounded to end, and that is why it is complete. You hear the different bird calls before you spot them, zigzagging high and low.

When the warmth of the sun starts creeping along your skin you’re so comfortable – possibly even happy – that you resist going back in. You know you should, a few more hours of sleep will do you well, and you know the moment is over anyway. When you reluctantly head back in it is only because you promise yourself this is but a temporary separation.

And yet.

In a couple of hours you will find out the harder truth, that this place does not belong to you. It can (it is!) taken away with a snap of his fingers. It is not done uncaringly, but it is unmistakable. You discover how hard it is to reconcile the fact with how you feel about it, that loving a place does not make it yours. And so, before you leave the next day – and the next, and the next – a ritual starts taking shape: when it is time to leave, you step outside for a moment. It is a moment you create anew, every time, and you linger. You are saying goodbye, because you know you might not come back. And if this is the last time, if there might not be another moment, then you want to make sure you feel this one. 

You do not ask for your heart back. Still, your eyes wander down the road.

I've been trying to do it right

I belong with you, you belong with me

You're my sweetheart

The Wall

Special adventures :)

 "Cry 'Havoc!' and let slip the dogs of war"

William Shakespeare's Julius Caesar

I had no time to choose

"You can't deny how hard I've tried

I changed who I was to put you both first

But now I give up."

It's ok. It is hard.

"The good things aren't a movie. There isn't enough to make a reel. The good things are a poem, barely longer than a haiku. (...) There are all the grand things he wanted to be, a longing so naked and sorry I sensed it and grieved it even as a young child. (...) "I mean, imagine my life if I'd been raised by my father."

"Imagine your life if you'd had a father who loved you as a father should", Vince countered.

I tried to imagine such a thing, but my mind could not be forced to do it. I couldn't break it down into a list. I couldn't land on love or security, confidence or a sense of belonging. A father who loved you as a father should was greater than his parts."

Cheryl Strayed, Wild

It's a shot in the dark, but

 "When I am with you, 

there's no place I'd rather be."

I ‘spose I’ve got to go the road I’m going

[...]

It’s rest I want – there, I have said it out –
From cooking meals for hungry hired men
And washing dishes after them – from doing
Things over and over that just won’t stay done.
By good rights I ought not to have so much
Put on me, but there seems no other way.
Len says one steady pull more ought to do it.
He says the best way out is always through.
And I agree to that, or in so far
As that I can see no way out but through –
Leastways for me – and then they’ll be convinced.

[...]

Bless you, of course, you’re keeping me from work,
But the thing of it is, I need to be kept.
There’s work enough to do – there’s always that;
But behind’s behind. The worst that you can do
Is set me back a little more behind.
I sha’n’t catch up in this world, anyway.
I’d rather you’d not go unless you must.

 Robert Frost, A Servant to Servants (1915) 
https://thepoetryhour.com/poems/a-servant-to-servants/

Apocryphals

These are a few of my favorite things.

And I'd give up forever to touch you

Cause I know that you feel me somehow

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

John McCrae

Sigh