The days melting together
Saying there is no point
In suns or sleep
Time flows flows flows
While you love
While you weep
World keeps on turning
A coward, a creep
Before Midnight, Before Sunrise, Before Sunset, Celine, Ethan Hawke, film, Greece, Jesse, Julie Delpy, love, man, marriage, Paris, Richard Linklater, romance, time, time travel, trains, trilogy, Vienna, woman
Before Sunrise (1995)
Think of it like this: jump ahead, ten, twenty years, okay, and you’re married. Only your marriage doesn’t have that same energy that it used to have, y’know. You start to blame your husband. You start to think about all those guys you’ve met in your life and what might have happened if you’d picked up with one of them, right? Well, I’m one of those guys. That’s me y’know, so think of this as time travel, from then, to now, to find out what you’re missing out on. See, what this really could be is a gigantic favor to both you and your future husband to find out that you’re not missing out on anything. I’m just as big a loser as he is, totally unmotivated, totally boring, and, uh, you made the right choice, and you’re really happy.
I kind of see this all love as this, escape for two people who don’t know how to be alone.
I always liked the idea of all those unknown people lost in the world.
The moment Jesse mouthed “yes” at 1:06
Before Sunset (2004)
But we’re not real anyway, right? We’re just, uh, characters in that old lady’s dream. She’s on her deathbed, fantasizing about her youth. So of course we had to meet again.
Before Midnight (2013)
I fucked up my whole life because of the way you sing.
When they watch the sun as it sets
But if you want true love, then this is it. This is real life. It’s not perfect, but it’s real.
I was sleeping when someone called and woke me up and I wanted to cry and kill myself.
I realized that I’m not happening. Looking around, I see that everything is happening to me but I’m not happening to anything.
A cancelled lecture? I go back home and sleep.
Out of food? I go shopping.
A received text? I reply.
Everything happens to me and I only react. I’m a reaction.
Even the one thing I thought I actively do – watch movies and series – turns out to be happening to me. The stories of people far away in lands of real fiction and fantasy happen to me.
I’m not happening.
I pride myself on my passion. The single greatest investment I make every single moment of my life is emotional. An emotional investment requires your heart, something more valuable than money. Unfortunately, I have observed that I usually invest almost all of my heart in only 1% of my world that there’s not enough left for the remaining 99%. It’s definitely dysfunctional but I don’t care that I lack multiple social connections, a healthy parent-daughter relationship, or even a decent relationship with myself. I honestly don’t care. The infusion of my passion into that select 1% makes existence tolerable, life palatable, and Time expandable. And that’s all I want.
If redemption lies in giving parts of yourself to other people, I just might make it to heaven.
Light has always been one of my favorite physical/metaphysical concepts but recently I’ve also found asylum in darkness. There’s something almost as equally enchanting about darkness as there is about light. The way it hides us, the way we lose ourselves in it, the way it envelopes us as we curl up within ourselves.
Dangerous waters, these are dangerous waters. Thank you for that pointless reminder, Farida.
My name is Red and I am nine months pregnant.
I love my story because it is true as our imagination and that is my favorite truth.
I love it still despite knowing that no one believes it, not even him. I don’t blame him; it is rather incredible.
I love my incredible story and I am nine months pregnant.
We met at home.
We created home, made it, built every wall and every window with our bare hands and naked minds.
Close is the distance between your eyes but for us, it was only a word, weak and fragile. We were never close; we were together. Only and all together. Our together was the most magic feeling; the magic of our together made us.
Sharing time was our soul. The moments we shared made us and all time stood still gazing at our talent, we – talented as nothing else – spun time and danced to its music as the fabric unraveled.
With so much love came a flood of fear.
He thought we would die if we lived.
I thought touching, merely touching, would not survive our fire and we would not die, no, we would burn ourselves into stars.
And so it was. Handwritten letters across seas of space and poetry flying, roaming our minds but never heard. Apart together.
Two years of us then, one day, I was not red.
My doctor said: You are pregnant.
We never touched.
You are pregnant, two months pregnant.
We never touched.
Congratulations. You are pregnant.
And we never touched.
I went home and uttered the words. I am pregnant.
He is a man; his waves of fury wrecked the morning and left me with no sunlight, not enough for us both.
I swore I was as virgin as our immaculate bed.
I swore I was as virgin as our dreamy eyes, our dreams, us.
I swore but he is a man, yes, a poet, an artist, a lover, but above all, a man. He is the man I loved and we were burning.
Suddenly all his clocks shattered and mine sang on alone; a sad solo.
The months passed like months, long and dreary as all months without him. But it no longer mattered. My growing belly, feeling my growing belly, made us all over again. The new soul within infused me with hormones unlike all his poetry, any poetry. One feeling unfelt before now completed me, the new life within me made me whole and I prayed.
I prayed every time she kicked – I had this strange intuition she awaited – that she would have his eyes. I prayed every time I felt sick that she would have his hands. I prayed every time she danced that he would realize she was his.
She was ours.
All the love was ours and now hers, too. We made love, yes, we made her. And she made us all over again.
I prayed he would know.
My name is Red and I am giving birth.
I woke up today feeling him, back. I could hear his poetry all around me, his eyes in the skies above watching over me, his hands embracing all the space between us. But he was not back; the mail box was dusty and empty like yesterday.
The feelings were not lying; feelings never lie.
His poetry, his eyes, his hands, they were back, within me in all ecstasy and love.
She was coming.
She is coming. I can feel his verses crawling out of me, his excited eyes wandering beyond my skin, his soul dancing through me.
I am not screaming, this is not labor. I am not screaming, only breathing.
A single gasp and the world bows beneath my feet for she is coming. From between my legs a blinding light is born. She travels like the wind, like spirits through every living organism, like music in the trees, like his poetry, pungent and poignant.
And past the gasp, it is over. It is beginning.
Passion is here.
And I’m dead.
No soul left for the life yet to come. Consumed by procrastination and the burdening baggage of a body dragging itself from one room to another.
All enthusiasm flushed down the sewers of Time and youth. All love extinguished by the rains of Life, the reins of Life. All life begging for a door but dropping all the keys along the way.
Too sick for the green tea and too tired for the morning walk; only trapped.
Every breath is a reminder that I am doomed and every heartbeat the crescendo of my tragic symphony.
And the only scene where I smell the red roses is when I wander around my grave, wondering who dropped them by mistake.
And I’m dead. As dead as I will ever be.
The radio is on
And you’re on my mind
It’s like you were never gone
And I’m stuck in rewind
Waiting for time to go back
Waiting for a time machine
Fading into pitch black
Don’t want our final scene
But this life goes on
And I will forget
Mourning what has gone
Just can’t let go yet
But I’ll keep waiting
For my time machine
I’m not sure it’ll come
But I’m still fifteen
The radio is still on
But the song is sad
It talks about lost love
And people who’ve gone mad
Let me tell you ten sick notions that make reality a miserable mess.
Number one is hope, surely there’s no negotiation.
Number two is love; an asinine confabulation.
Number three is ego; our corrupt power station.
Number four is belief in awesome divine salvation.
Number five is desire; the evil conflagration.
Number six is time; its daggers of intoxication.
Number seven is corporeality; damnation.
Number eight is illusion granting exhilaration.
Number nine is our grave conscience, lost in translation.
And number ten is us alive in asphyxiation.
Let me tell you one sick thing that made your day a miserable mess.
This vomit sac of a poem, a genius game of chess.
I walk into the kitchen of my soul searching for something new. Or something old. I crave a sense of the beauty of the old. The old that permeates peacefully into the mind soothing its obsessions and guiding its illusions back home. A fantasy. A legend. A million-years-old legend to dance with me at midnight.
Is it rust? Is it pallor? Is it dust? What is it that I crave so vehemently? That color of colorlessness painting the sound of silence in a surreal realm of reality. A sense of the old and the beautiful. A scent of nostalgia magnificently empowered with intense mania. Simply, something old. What is that? Where can I get it?
I rummage through the wooden cupboards of my memory but find nothing of such wonderful nature. My memory is a few years old and captures nothing of my desires, it merely stores bagatelles of commonness and ordinariness. I must look for a special scent of overwhelming euphoria mixed with powders of novelty and stupor. What is that? Where can I get it?
I walk around examining the pots and pans of my past. They’re standing silently in utmost perfection; divinity. The past is the most divine time of all times. Unlike the present for the present is swifter than the blink of an eye and invisible like the unknown and trembles away instantly. The past is eternal, immortal, and omnipresent. Unlike the future for the future sparkles with hopes and plans but sulks over its own uncertainty and tormenting possibility of crashing death at any moment. Unlike anything else, the past lives on; eternally, as old as the world yet blooming as ever. The past shines within. The past dances with dreams and fantasies, painting the mind with miraculous shades of hysteria, awakening the heart with flying mysteries unsolved forever. The past…
I still can’t find it. It’s nowhere to be found in this dump of a soul. Where is it? Will I ever find it?
Is it possible? Is it possible to procure this rarity? Is it possible to crave an imagined possibility? Is it possible to desire surreal beauty amidst a fiery ferocious reality? Is it possible? Is it?
It is. It must be. I am craving. I am desiring. It must be possible. It must be. It is.
It suddenly strikes me. I run towards the window and break it open. The shards of glass scream and scatter suicidally yet gracefully everywhere. The gushing wind ambushes the kitchen from outside unleashing the secrets of storms and hurricanes into my soul. The black and white leaves of mango trees crawl inside the kitchen precariously watching for their steps among the shards of glass. The air, the scene, the sounds, everything radiates with exuberance. The deafening atmosphere resuscitates my memory. Decades of life rapidly race into me; overflowing. I suddenly know where to find the ingredients. I choose to stand still for longer moments, enjoying the caressing breeze as it hugs my heart revitalizing its once lost beat, enjoying the fondling wind as it plays the symphony of my mind passionately. My mind doesn’t keep track of the entity of time and the moments become infinite voyages into the wild forests of perfume and enchantment. But my heart beats longingly for the exotic recipe knowing that my mind finally captures it within. As I delve into the oceans of profound anoesis, the depth overtakes my soul and it becomes a wonderland of cerulean pulsating with waves of pumped blood and emotion from my heart. The scene is diffused with beatific hues of scarlet. I awaken from the trance as the trance awakens me.
I head for the maze of book shelves. I count twelve shelves from the bottom and reach for the antique golden box at the back corner. The golden box is smothered with glimmering dust particles, something old. The dust particles shine in their own antiquity reminding me of past glories. I blow the dust particles off the golden box and they dance with the air particles around my head; a magnificent waltz. The golden box is no longer golden. After blowing away its glowing dusty disguise, its nudity is exposed, an old rusty nudity; truthful. Another old thing, the rust coating the box with all of its carved peculiarities. I open the box slowly and momentarily the scent of ages long gone escapes, glimmering golden butterflies flutter away. The intoxicating scent of old times and truths and things. I look into the box and notice the crimson velveted interior, I see the red velvet curtain opening and the reverbating musical cue marking the beginning of the tragic play. I listen to the box and revel in its treaures. I find a locket with an enclosed gray photo of a young girl with a single braid sleeping on her right shoulder, a ticking pocket watch with a rusty chain, two withered brown leaves delicately hidden within a fragrant dusty handkerchief, and finally a bottle of black ink. It all makes sense inexplicably. The cold sensation I feel when my fingers touch the ink bottle accompanied with the ticking of the pocket watch, harmonizing the cool, clothed in the penetrating smell of the withered leaves provides the ambrosial setting for the young girl with the braid to sing.
My heart rejoices jubilantly. My mind bows victoriously. My soul is at peace.