It's so difficult to string a line of words into a cohesive bundle of perfectly glued-up words, infused with enough flavour to trigger your imagination, and yet enough subtlety to leave scope for dreaming and embellishment.
I read somewhere (a Woody Allen quote, was it?) that there aren't any good enough words to use to describe a place, or a place in time for that matter, with appropriate adjectives that are potent enough to carry you back to that frozen memory that sits and occupies the highest throne in your mind palace.
So by that virtue, I should be thoroughly unable and unsuccessful in any attempts, however earnest, to recreate through my words, the magic of the happiest night of my life.
No, there wasn't any mystery man, there wasn't any champagne, there wasn't a big fat paycheck with my name on it, there weren't any front-row tickets to a Coldplay concert.
There I sat on a wooden bench with two of the closest friends that I have, with a cup of hot chocolate in my hands, as the Swiss Alps watched over us and eavesdropped on our laughter and on our nonsensical chatter. A half moon shone in the sky stealing away some shine from all the constellations that accompanied it on this glorious night. Our hotel manager played us a rather mellow song in what I guessed was German, and whose lyrics we failed to understand. We sat there and realized how far we were from home and our regular lives at that very moment, not just geographically but also metaphorically. And yet, there was a sense of complete unadulterated peace that I still associate with that beautiful night, and a very certain, very definite knowledge of being in the company of two people who would never leave me, never let me down, never hurt me, and for whom I would gladly take a bullet. Maybe even with a cocky smile on my face, to leave behind a corpse that would scare them shitless and maybe even make them laugh when they thought about my rather strange sense of humour after the bullet had gotten the better of me.
We hunt for companionship in our lives, foolishly associating it with romance and sexuality and a ring on the third finger. What if that's where we, as a race, are going wrong?
What if this much-yearned-for companionship need not entail all those things? What if mere platonic love for another human being is enough, as long as it includes reciprocation and wholehearted acceptance? Maybe I tend to romanticize events and memories, add dashes of poetic adornment that bubble, brew and marinate them over time, and turn them into something that eventually seems as perfect as can possibly be; but this particular night remains to be everything I wish for from my life. Good music, a hot cup to warm my hands with, and the best friends that a girl can ever hope to have. What could be better?
I read somewhere (a Woody Allen quote, was it?) that there aren't any good enough words to use to describe a place, or a place in time for that matter, with appropriate adjectives that are potent enough to carry you back to that frozen memory that sits and occupies the highest throne in your mind palace.
So by that virtue, I should be thoroughly unable and unsuccessful in any attempts, however earnest, to recreate through my words, the magic of the happiest night of my life.
No, there wasn't any mystery man, there wasn't any champagne, there wasn't a big fat paycheck with my name on it, there weren't any front-row tickets to a Coldplay concert.
There I sat on a wooden bench with two of the closest friends that I have, with a cup of hot chocolate in my hands, as the Swiss Alps watched over us and eavesdropped on our laughter and on our nonsensical chatter. A half moon shone in the sky stealing away some shine from all the constellations that accompanied it on this glorious night. Our hotel manager played us a rather mellow song in what I guessed was German, and whose lyrics we failed to understand. We sat there and realized how far we were from home and our regular lives at that very moment, not just geographically but also metaphorically. And yet, there was a sense of complete unadulterated peace that I still associate with that beautiful night, and a very certain, very definite knowledge of being in the company of two people who would never leave me, never let me down, never hurt me, and for whom I would gladly take a bullet. Maybe even with a cocky smile on my face, to leave behind a corpse that would scare them shitless and maybe even make them laugh when they thought about my rather strange sense of humour after the bullet had gotten the better of me.
We hunt for companionship in our lives, foolishly associating it with romance and sexuality and a ring on the third finger. What if that's where we, as a race, are going wrong?
What if this much-yearned-for companionship need not entail all those things? What if mere platonic love for another human being is enough, as long as it includes reciprocation and wholehearted acceptance? Maybe I tend to romanticize events and memories, add dashes of poetic adornment that bubble, brew and marinate them over time, and turn them into something that eventually seems as perfect as can possibly be; but this particular night remains to be everything I wish for from my life. Good music, a hot cup to warm my hands with, and the best friends that a girl can ever hope to have. What could be better?
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