onelast-onetime-bigtime
reposted from multiply (written sometime in may 2007, too bad i just have to repeat the same lines.) after all, im entitled to my own blogpost.
By the River Piedra, I sat down and wept by Paulo Coelho -- I hated this book way back in college, only to find out that the more appropriate disposition could've been dread.
By the River Piedra I sat down and wept. There is a legend that everything that falls into the waters of this river -- leaves, insects, the feathers of birds -- is transformed into the rocks that make the riverbed. If only I could tear out my hear and hurl it into the current, then my pain and longing would be over, and I could finally forget.
By the River Piedra I sat down and wept. The winter air chills the tears on my cheeks, and my tears fall into the cold waters that course past me. Somewhere, this river joins another, then another, until -- far from my heart and sight -- all of them merge with the sea.
May my tears run just as far, that my love might never know that one day I cried for him. May my tears run just as far, that I might forget the River Piedra, the monastery, the church, in the Pyrenees, the mists, and the paths we walked together.
I shall forget the road, the mountains, and the fields of my dreams -- the dreams that will never come true.
I remember my "magic moment" -- that instant when a "yes" or a "no" can change one's life forever. It seems so long ago now. It is hard to believe that it was only last week that I had found my love once again, and then lost him.
I am writing this story on the bank of the River Piedra. My hands are freezing, my legs are numb, and every minute I want to stop.
"Seek to live. Remembrance is for the old," he said.
Perhaps love makes us old before our time or young, if youth has passed. But how can I not recall those moments? That is why I write -- to try to turn sadness into longing, solitude into remembrance. So that when I finish telling myself the story, I can toss it into the Piedra. That's what the woman we has given me shelter told me to do. Only then -- in the words of one of the saints -- will the water extinguish what the flames have written.
All love stories are the same.
I must have been too tired when I read the book years back that I failed to find my heart in it. Now, I've come to the point where I could but repeat Pilar's lines. No reactions, not even a preachy sermon - just plain and forlorn resonance. At this stance, I am again choosing the grace of silence, and perhaps just pray and weep (though hopefully not for the same reason) with Pilar.
Amen.
By the River Piedra, I sat down and wept by Paulo Coelho -- I hated this book way back in college, only to find out that the more appropriate disposition could've been dread.
By the River Piedra I sat down and wept. There is a legend that everything that falls into the waters of this river -- leaves, insects, the feathers of birds -- is transformed into the rocks that make the riverbed. If only I could tear out my hear and hurl it into the current, then my pain and longing would be over, and I could finally forget.
By the River Piedra I sat down and wept. The winter air chills the tears on my cheeks, and my tears fall into the cold waters that course past me. Somewhere, this river joins another, then another, until -- far from my heart and sight -- all of them merge with the sea.
May my tears run just as far, that my love might never know that one day I cried for him. May my tears run just as far, that I might forget the River Piedra, the monastery, the church, in the Pyrenees, the mists, and the paths we walked together.
I shall forget the road, the mountains, and the fields of my dreams -- the dreams that will never come true.
I remember my "magic moment" -- that instant when a "yes" or a "no" can change one's life forever. It seems so long ago now. It is hard to believe that it was only last week that I had found my love once again, and then lost him.
I am writing this story on the bank of the River Piedra. My hands are freezing, my legs are numb, and every minute I want to stop.
"Seek to live. Remembrance is for the old," he said.
Perhaps love makes us old before our time or young, if youth has passed. But how can I not recall those moments? That is why I write -- to try to turn sadness into longing, solitude into remembrance. So that when I finish telling myself the story, I can toss it into the Piedra. That's what the woman we has given me shelter told me to do. Only then -- in the words of one of the saints -- will the water extinguish what the flames have written.
All love stories are the same.
I must have been too tired when I read the book years back that I failed to find my heart in it. Now, I've come to the point where I could but repeat Pilar's lines. No reactions, not even a preachy sermon - just plain and forlorn resonance. At this stance, I am again choosing the grace of silence, and perhaps just pray and weep (though hopefully not for the same reason) with Pilar.
Amen.
posted by l'etre pour Autrui at 11:07
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