Ist version Memory Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,Are heaped for the belovèd’s bed,And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,Love itself shall slumber on… Music, when soft voices … Continue reading Memory & To— by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Valentin Louis Georges Eugène Marcel Proust, French novelist, critic, essayist and a philosopher in his own right. You know when it’s time, you know when it’s that one moment which … Continue reading Marcel Proust
Memory is a fragile thing. Memories – a tenuous affair
You want to hold it close and sheltered within the walls of that skeletal structure looming over your shoulders.
You do too. Voluntary, involuntary.
But, then it has its own way of escaping, it slips out of the bounds and becomes the gentle air, floats around you, engulfs you. It’s like that wine, matured over the years, reeling your senses into the realm where unreal is more real.
Do you want to lose yourself? Do you even have a choice?