HOME | DD

Description
We fell in love with the magic and mystery of existence,
with time, present and past, with thought and wonder, belief and doubt, emotion and stoicism.

We fell in love with long nights well spent cooking porridge, as it is said in far off places, with soft, dark hair and deep, brown eyes just subtly hiding a radiating smile.

The best days passed not in summer, but in its fading to fall, fall's entry to winter, winter's yielding to spring, and spring's regeneration to summer again.  We watched as thin, fragile souls fell softly to the ground and lit our delicate world with laughter, then slowly climbed the branches of hope again and seated themselves atop damp, resilient leaves.  Loneliness was never loneliness; coloured cathedrals, dimly lit sidewalks, and orange street lamps never escaped our silent sighs and lowly murmurs.

Then, like a ghost wandering a corridor, something slipped unnoticed into our painting, darkening the sky to an ominous grey.  Rivers died and trees withered and the magic of our art was lost, the mysteries all solved.

I still search for signs of the blissful meadows we once grew, but you have left this fiction, this mere memory.  And I will continue, to the end of time, yearning to live the magic again.

Description
We fell in love with the magic and mystery of existence,
with time, present and past, with thought and wonder, belief and doubt, emotion and stoicism.

We fell in love with long nights well spent cooking porridge, as it is said in far off places, with soft, dark hair and deep, brown eyes just subtly hiding a radiating smile.

The best days passed not in summer, but in its fading to fall, fall's entry to winter, winter's yielding to spring, and spring's regeneration to summer again.  We watched as thin, fragile souls fell softly to the ground and lit our delicate world with laughter, then slowly climbed the branches of hope again and seated themselves atop damp, resilient leaves.  Loneliness was never loneliness; coloured cathedrals, dimly lit sidewalks, and orange street lamps never escaped our silent sighs and lowly murmurs.

Then, like a ghost wandering a corridor, something slipped unnoticed into our painting, darkening the sky to an ominous grey.  Rivers died and trees withered and the magic of our art was lost, the mysteries all solved.

I still search for signs of the blissful meadows we once grew, but you have left this fiction, this mere memory.  And I will continue, to the end of time, yearning to live the magic again.