what is love

More quarantine musings.

Yesterday I went out for another walk. It felt good to move, although the snow makes it difficult to get past people. A woman went by, talking on her phone. She let out a long breath as she passed.

Sometimes I think about the molecules of scent. If I can smell someone, their breath, their perfume, their body, what does it mean?  The importance of smell and touch. The atmosphere that another person brings with them when they come into a room. The movement of air, of sound, of thought – we watch one another and wonder at the distance, the possibility of closeness.

It’s not the same on the screen, however safe it may feel.

Frequently, I wonder if I will ever want to go anywhere, when and if this ever stops. Yesterday was a very bad day. I thought of all I was thankful for. Then I looked at airfares. I thought of calling people I know. When can you say enough is enough?

Possibly, you can’t. Today it seemed difficult to remember quite how bad it was. If no one listens, then there is nothing there to remember. Maybe.

I talked to a friend today who told me a tale in passing that was truly sad. Was that why he did it? There are things that are truly awful – and they don’t ask to be questioned. And we wake up, again, with memory. For us all, that’s the greatest luxury – waking up.

For us all.

I think of forests, and oceans, beaches and mountain tops, and I wonder if I will ever see them again. I think of what love can be, and what it will be.

Today it is snowing. I wish it would snow for a month. There are still too many cars out but there is no shouting, no racing, no endless sound of activity. Perhaps for all those who need constant movement, this calm is not a positive sound; the absence of frénésie, the sound of rest, of retreat.

And tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.