"Between the computer, a pencil, and a typewriter

half my day passes. One day it will be half a century.
I live in strange cities and sometimes talk
with strangers about matters strange to me.
I listen to music a lot: Bach, Mahler, Chopin, Shostakovich.
I see three elements in music: weakness, power, and pain.
The fourth has no name.
I read poets, living and dead, who teach me
tenacity, faith, and pride. I try to understand
the great philosophers–but usually catch just
scraps of their precious thoughts.
I like to take long walks on Paris streets
and watch my fellow creatures, quickened by envy,
anger, desire; to trace a silver coin
passing from hand to hand as it slowly
loses its round shape (the emperor’s profile is erased).
Beside me trees expressing nothing
but a green, indifferent perfection.
Black birds pace the fields,
waiting patiently like Spanish widows.
I’m no longer young, but someone else is always older.
I like deep sleep, when I cease to exist,
and fast bike rides on country roads when poplars and houses
dissolve like cumuli on sunny days.
Sometimes in museums the paintings speak to me
and irony suddenly vanishes.
I love gazing at my wife’s face.
Every Sunday I call my father.
Every other week I meet with friends,
thus proving my fidelity.
My country freed itself from one evil. I wish
another liberation would follow.
Could I help in this? I don’t know.
I’m truly not a child of the ocean,
as Antonio Machado wrote about himself,
but a child of air, mint and cello
and not all the ways of the high world
cross paths with the life that–so far–
belongs to me.” 

- Adam Zagajewski

I watched a movie today

that was quite funny, but also about a dude who cheats on and breaks up with his girlfriend.  And there’s this part at the end of the movie where he kisses her goodbye, and it’s the last time they ever kiss, and he thinks back to their first kiss and how many things happened between that first kiss and that last one.  And it made me think that I don’t want our last kiss to have been our last kiss.  I remember our first one, and I remember our last one, but I still can’t think of it as the last one we’ll ever have.  Because how could I possibly never kiss you again?

I miss you, as always, and I wish I wish I wish I could still tell you these things.  I like to believe you’d think of it in the same way, sort of.  Not in a hopeful way, but in an I-honest-to-god-have-never-thought-of-that-as-our-last-kiss way, that kind of makes you sad when you realize that you still have a little bit of hope for us, even though the timing is the worst thing in the world and I ended up treating you so badly because I have no self-esteem and such an awful habit of lying…  Anyways.  I miss you.  And somehow, I hope I get to kiss you one more time.