We meet people and fall in love. And when we part, they leave marks for us to remember them by. Our lovers sculpt us. They define us. For better or worse. Like a pinball, we slam into them and rebound in a different direction. Propelled by the contact. And after their parting, we might be scarred. But stronger. Or more fragile or needy or angry or guilty. But never unchanged. Our lovers linger inside us like ghosts. Haunting the corridors and deserted rooms. Sometimes whispering. Sometimes screaming. Invisible but… always there. Waiting.

Perhaps after five decades, 'love' and all the related entanglements become something one can pick up and wear for a day, like a piece of clothing, or it becomes an old friend and companion, always at your side but without all the frivolous ornaments that adorn younger phases. And then for some of us it's a dog-eared well-worn book read only by ourselves, constantly rewritten.

Labels: musings, quotes