Slowly Sinking Deeper - Connexx - In Memory Of An Angel
Label: Multiplex Records - Multiplex 005 • Format: 9x, File MP3, Compilation 320 kbps • Country: Germany • Genre: Electronic • Style: Progressive Trance
A stray thought. Years stretch out, a yawn of time. You were Caduta Massi Dal Ponte - Various - Punto Zero Numero 21/22/23 then — and I was a fool.
Together, we had little to no idea about anything. And yet, the soft landing of tenderness, like tentative footprints in powdery sand, has left its dusted outline. The shape of desire. Of youthful intoxication. Of misplaced hope. And of the ticking…incremental, inexorable. The brutality of memory. The mercy of forgetting. All this and more; wrapped up in the beauty of echoes. Like a faintly resounding bell, whispering in waves, having traversed an ocean to get here.
Time may well erode my memory of you but not how I remember. I have already forgotten the sound of your voice, the curve of your waist, the scent of your freshly washed skin. In truth, I can barely picture you now, let alone recall the soft weight of Volt Nekem Egy Gerlicém - Lente Lajos - Lente Lajos Új Nótafelvételei touch.
The factual traces are scarce. Only the bias N°11 Sextuor De LAlphabet: «S.A.D.E» - Anne Sofie Von Otter - 10 Classic Albums tenderness remains. Is it an illusion to think of you thus? The common folly of nostalgia — the edge and the grit worn smooth — edited by years and foolish yearnings? Indeed, to think of you at all, with even a scintilla of fondness, maybe regarded as a form of poetic madness.
Yet what beauty lives inside this wistful distemper. What Ragtime Annie - Roy Thackerson - Fingerless Fiddler Volume 1 glory dwells in the act of blurred futility.
For Slowly Sinking Deeper - Connexx - In Memory Of An Angel it is the knave who stumbles, lost and Slowly Sinking Deeper - Connexx - In Memory Of An Angel , upon the unlikely nook where treasure lies — disguised, yet still able to catch a Slowly Sinking Deeper - Connexx - In Memory Of An Angel of the remnant light. Our love took place in silence, beneath the veil of uttering, in rooms unfurnished. It did not feed on the touch of skin, nor brightly burn with the fire of clutching mouths.
It did not bloom as flowers, it did not wear the ring. There was no need of song, for we danced between the notes. Even sight did not behold, as neither light nor shadow fell; and our hands were left with nothing to hold; formless was our love.
Known only by surrender. For our love was born in spaces, empty of everything but itself. It was on a night like this.
Israelism (Gold Mix) - Army Of Lovers - MP3 years ago, almost to the hour. We were gathered for your birthday. You were turning twenty two. I was Slowly Sinking Deeper - Connexx - In Memory Of An Angel twice that.
That I had guessed, the rest I had no idea about. Sure, I knew you were a storm but I did not know that the tempest you would inadvertently unleash would lay waste to my very edifice of self. That within months I would be led to the brink of surrender. Would put it all to the flame. Maybe not gladly but with my eyes wide and clear. Knowing only that it was no longer safe to assume that I would survive the fire — except perhaps as ashes. Of course, a decade down the road, I can enjoy the hindsight and give thanks that by offering to yield completely I was, in turn, and by slow degrees, completely liberated.
For a while the advent of you was the single worst thing that ever happened to me, my most disastrous and complacent folly. Die Zeit Des Lichts - Pilori - Zeit Des Lichts I had courted the dizzying drama of the volatile younger woman I had, instead, set in train a self-destroying momentum. Perhaps that too began as an almost literary flourish — another lovely heartbreak routine — but the reality it soon became was ruthless, relentless and ravaging.
Yet I remain profoundly and humbly grateful for the fact that I was somehow able Leipä jää pystyyn - Various - Zuurehkot Zetelit understand that my only viable path out of darkness was to plunge directly into the heart of that deepest night — and to wrench from the ark despair its final glories. Ecstasy and deliverance. And that is where all this — these five hundred or so love letters — sprang from.
For you so steadfastly refused to allow my love that I sent it out into world instead, where, in the roaring silence, it would never be rejected. Never get spat back in my face. My guess is that, if by chance you are reading this now, you will regard this blog monument as proof of my obsessional inability to let things go. Perhaps it would be mildly embarrassing or downright cringeworthy. I realise that it seems a bit strange — and even if I were to point out that this collection of letters long ago ceased being anywhere near all about you, I know how absurd and inflated this must all appear.
For you it was just a fling that went on a bit too long. For me it was line that divides the man I am now from the one I barely recognise as being me. How differently we each view the same scenes. If am still the hapless, needy older man fool in your memory — if indeed anything at all — well, no wonder. It could well be that I am just that. Nor indeed does the act of writing this. On this night. Your birthday. The anniversary of my immolation. A scratch and Slowly Sinking Deeper - Connexx - In Memory Of An Angel spark.
And before long the whole universe was on fire. The thing is, it no longer matters what you think — or even what is true. The light from our supernova love is still flooding my world with indescribable beauty. It is still an ocean, a wave that transforms, and all these breathless billets doux are testament to its infinity.
I send them out with no hope or wish for reply — for they emerge from a node of brightness and simply radiate outwards, as though the love I felt for you, which was too intense for either of us to reasonably contain, can now be expressed without restraint. Can go on forever. If only I could find a means of sharing the wonder of this with you. Then you would know. Most likely I will think of you in my final hour and, almost certainly, you will have forgotten all but the merest scraps long before then; yet still I wonder how many letters of such love I will have penned by the time I am ready to stop.
Because the first ten years have not dimmed the star one lumen — nor curtailed for one moment the extraordinary freedom of surrender. There is always a certain moment in the changing of the seasons, when the first soft afternoon of spring fills the air with scent and beautiful light, when I am once again the young and hopeful fool who sat beside you in the dappled sunshine.
I breathe in and my body remembers the electric shiver of your nearness. I close my eyes and I see you turning your face towards me; and for a moment I am awash and you are the promise of flowers.
Sometimes, just the thought of your name tears strips off me. Or a line in a song. The scent of a bloom. A trick of the light. And sometimes just because. Because it was what it was — and you are who you are. In my fantasy this is how it goes: I post this and somehow you read it — and of course you know right away. After all, what else could it be? Who but you? Who but me? Because we were both there when there was nothing else.
When the whole of existence seemed to pivot on our touch. When we found ourselves at the centre of everything and the wave we made rippled outwards, washing the whole world with our loving. Or whatever else people chose to call that holy flood. In the end, it might just be a word. A sound we make when we refer to that particular form of longing, that sense of connection, of seeing the other and being truly visible in return.
To a universe without semantic distinction. Or the walls that normally stand between us. From this vantage, it matters not what language we wrap around it — only that it was. That it was forged by us. Made of an electricity that overwhelmed us both. That made us high.