Yo Yo Ma.

The last post was written 24 hours ago, just failed to press the Publish button. I thought I might as well supplement with today's entry. Fair warning, this entry has absolutely diddly squat to do with Foucault and what he says about knowledge and power.

I've been listening to Yo Yo Ma's Bach Cello Suites on a loop. My soul resonates with every articulated note. It's almost like a call-and-response.

[I looked up Paris earlier this evening. Cobble-stoned streets, cute apartments for rent. Maybe.]

Melancholy. 

As I use to do, and less so the past few years, I went back through my archives. I hadn't meant to. But reading old correspondences from almost five years ago... just... made me feel, so... aged. I remember the voices so clearly. I remember how we felt. The energy. The eager anticipation. The collective looking-forward. Easy conversations with the recognition that this, was serious. The start of a new relationship. Always the new relationship that I wished would be my last. The falling in love. Thinking everything they had to say was the most interesting thing I'd ever heard. Having everything you say BE the most interesting thing they heard that day. The sobering realization that it was too late to turn back. The glee that followed.

Wistful. 

A longing for simpler times that at the time they happened, were not simple. 

A wish that we had held onto the eagerness of each other. That we had remembered that we'd thought so highly of each other. That we had known the depth to which we'd enjoy one another. 

A dream that the conversation will pick up where it had trailed off somewhere along the road. Little by little. Where it had been absentmindedly left behind... 

Tired.  

Yet like a metal rooster, ever hopeful.