Farther than what sees the biggest metallic eye.
From the land of dragons and eternal sunshine...
Came a story about love that had lived forever. They said it was so because in memory, love lives forever.
~~
Almásy: New lovers are nervous and tender, but smash everything. For the heart is an organ of fire.
~~
Their love seemed to reflect all the changes he had undergone. It did not mirror them. But the symphony was a secret that was known to both of them. The fact was evident in his love hate relationship with the empty afternoons that brought his life to a grinding halt, almost without fail. In the unending source of inspiration that it had seemed to become. In more poetic moods, he had made himself believe that it had become a cornerstone in his life – a steady anchor in the ever meandering scheme of things. And now, when his romanticism had finally assumed a new image, he wondered how long he could refuse to don his own mantle. One such empty afternoon had caught him unaware and silently posed a question which he had been avoiding answering.
~~
Almásy: This - what's it called? - this place, I love it - this is mine!
~~
He does that often. Cup his face in his hands and look at the trees lining the road near his house. The view is through a grilled window and the pattern gives a surreal kaleidoscopic quality to the usually featureless trees. The Sun is beating its hammer on the anvil and the fresh leaves of spring are dry and parched already. Vehicles plying on the road leave little dust storms in their wake which settle contentedly on the leaves, depriving them of any bright colours and the least bit of dignity. A little out of touch with reality, he finds resonance in the scene. Life seems to be in a state of dysfunction and its presence tugs at his sleeves.
~~
Almásy: When were you most happy?
Katharine: Now.
Almásy: And when were you least happy?
Katharine: Now.
~~
You sit on your throne of question marks. Why? - Pain and suffering. If one can not share them, one can not love. Happiness is secondary. Overrated.
~~
Almásy: Every night I cut out my heart. But in the morning it was full again.
~~
Yes, I wish for your kind of people to smile and chuckle. To look at me in that heightened state of existence. So I take off on my flight of fancy once more. I swim in and out of clouds. In and out of reality. With and without patience. All the while being loved and not loving back. I miss heartbeats sometimes. Other times, I just skip them. On a whim. Catching a fancy. I keep all my heartbeats in a tin jar. It lies buried in the ground beneath my window. I will take you there. There are thumbpins on the board in my room. A pin for each heartbeat I missed. Yes, one for each of those missing ones which lie safe in the tin jar. My jar has a ship drawn on it. The wind is puffing up the sails. It is almost ready to take off. Bon voyage! The voyage to unknown lands. In search of treasure and pirates. The ship has therefore a black sail. The mast carries a sinister flag. A skull with two crossed bones underneath it. I will have a ship like that one day. I will be the captain. With a wooden leg and nasty parrot. Just like Captain Finch and Long John Silver. But none of your kind of people are going to be on board this time. You come to say your last good bye’s. I am happy I am casting off. Your kind of people are happy too. To see me happy. Whatever that means. I cast off my anchor and smile that last toothy grin, the gap in my teeth giving it an ominous feel. I don’t look back. Neither do your kind of people. I am off, thus, and despite all the eccentricity, I still remain yours.
~~
Katharine: My darling. How long is the day in the dark? Or a week? The fire is gone, and I'm horribly cold. I really should drag myself outside but then there'd be the sun. I'm afraid I waste the light on the paintings, not writing these words. We die. We die rich with lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we've entered and swum up like rivers. Fears we've hidden in - like this wretched cave. I want all this marked on my body. Where the real countries are. Not boundaries drawn on maps with the names of powerful men. I know you'll come carry me out to the Palace of Winds. That's what I've wanted: to walk in such a place with you. With friends, on an earth without maps. The lamp has gone out and I'm writing in the darkness.
~~
The people come alive and emotions are felt once more, their bite more tangible than ever. The plots, the sub plots, and their umpteen characters are sketched to perfection and it seems you had been lying all along, pretending to forget, so that you could goad me into telling my version of things. You sigh, you smile, you wish, and you yearn. The night seems to dilate in order to accommodate the vividness of your narration, and by then time it ends, I have lived another life in the span of a few hours. You’re exhausted, and parched.
If not for my sake then yours. But this is inevitable now. And since it is, it’s best we did what’s the right thing to do. For both of us. Begin afresh. Don’t feel guilty about anything for you did nothing wrong.
~~
Madox: I have to teach myself not to read too much into everything. It comes from too long having to read so much into hardly anything at all.
~~
Almásy: What do you hate most?
Katharine: A lie. What do you hate most?
Almásy: Ownership. Being owned. When you leave, you should forget me.
~~
I slowly find my path, “So out of place”, I wonder.
And soon it dawns how everything was a Slip of Time.
An asylum from banal reality, in guise of a mistress
Of words. How fitting I should sing of it in rhyme!
From the land of dragons and eternal sunshine...
Came a story about love that had lived forever. They said it was so because in memory, love lives forever.
~~
Almásy: New lovers are nervous and tender, but smash everything. For the heart is an organ of fire.
~~
Their love seemed to reflect all the changes he had undergone. It did not mirror them. But the symphony was a secret that was known to both of them. The fact was evident in his love hate relationship with the empty afternoons that brought his life to a grinding halt, almost without fail. In the unending source of inspiration that it had seemed to become. In more poetic moods, he had made himself believe that it had become a cornerstone in his life – a steady anchor in the ever meandering scheme of things. And now, when his romanticism had finally assumed a new image, he wondered how long he could refuse to don his own mantle. One such empty afternoon had caught him unaware and silently posed a question which he had been avoiding answering.
~~
Almásy: This - what's it called? - this place, I love it - this is mine!
~~
He does that often. Cup his face in his hands and look at the trees lining the road near his house. The view is through a grilled window and the pattern gives a surreal kaleidoscopic quality to the usually featureless trees. The Sun is beating its hammer on the anvil and the fresh leaves of spring are dry and parched already. Vehicles plying on the road leave little dust storms in their wake which settle contentedly on the leaves, depriving them of any bright colours and the least bit of dignity. A little out of touch with reality, he finds resonance in the scene. Life seems to be in a state of dysfunction and its presence tugs at his sleeves.
~~
Almásy: When were you most happy?
Katharine: Now.
Almásy: And when were you least happy?
Katharine: Now.
~~
You sit on your throne of question marks. Why? - Pain and suffering. If one can not share them, one can not love. Happiness is secondary. Overrated.
~~
Almásy: Every night I cut out my heart. But in the morning it was full again.
~~
Yes, I wish for your kind of people to smile and chuckle. To look at me in that heightened state of existence. So I take off on my flight of fancy once more. I swim in and out of clouds. In and out of reality. With and without patience. All the while being loved and not loving back. I miss heartbeats sometimes. Other times, I just skip them. On a whim. Catching a fancy. I keep all my heartbeats in a tin jar. It lies buried in the ground beneath my window. I will take you there. There are thumbpins on the board in my room. A pin for each heartbeat I missed. Yes, one for each of those missing ones which lie safe in the tin jar. My jar has a ship drawn on it. The wind is puffing up the sails. It is almost ready to take off. Bon voyage! The voyage to unknown lands. In search of treasure and pirates. The ship has therefore a black sail. The mast carries a sinister flag. A skull with two crossed bones underneath it. I will have a ship like that one day. I will be the captain. With a wooden leg and nasty parrot. Just like Captain Finch and Long John Silver. But none of your kind of people are going to be on board this time. You come to say your last good bye’s. I am happy I am casting off. Your kind of people are happy too. To see me happy. Whatever that means. I cast off my anchor and smile that last toothy grin, the gap in my teeth giving it an ominous feel. I don’t look back. Neither do your kind of people. I am off, thus, and despite all the eccentricity, I still remain yours.
~~
Katharine: My darling. How long is the day in the dark? Or a week? The fire is gone, and I'm horribly cold. I really should drag myself outside but then there'd be the sun. I'm afraid I waste the light on the paintings, not writing these words. We die. We die rich with lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we've entered and swum up like rivers. Fears we've hidden in - like this wretched cave. I want all this marked on my body. Where the real countries are. Not boundaries drawn on maps with the names of powerful men. I know you'll come carry me out to the Palace of Winds. That's what I've wanted: to walk in such a place with you. With friends, on an earth without maps. The lamp has gone out and I'm writing in the darkness.
~~
The people come alive and emotions are felt once more, their bite more tangible than ever. The plots, the sub plots, and their umpteen characters are sketched to perfection and it seems you had been lying all along, pretending to forget, so that you could goad me into telling my version of things. You sigh, you smile, you wish, and you yearn. The night seems to dilate in order to accommodate the vividness of your narration, and by then time it ends, I have lived another life in the span of a few hours. You’re exhausted, and parched.
If not for my sake then yours. But this is inevitable now. And since it is, it’s best we did what’s the right thing to do. For both of us. Begin afresh. Don’t feel guilty about anything for you did nothing wrong.
~~
Madox: I have to teach myself not to read too much into everything. It comes from too long having to read so much into hardly anything at all.
~~
Almásy: What do you hate most?
Katharine: A lie. What do you hate most?
Almásy: Ownership. Being owned. When you leave, you should forget me.
~~
I slowly find my path, “So out of place”, I wonder.
And soon it dawns how everything was a Slip of Time.
An asylum from banal reality, in guise of a mistress
Of words. How fitting I should sing of it in rhyme!
