today was not a song, a line from a song, or even a poem. today i woke up with this story in my head.
i read it for the first time when i was 17 during the best summer of my life (i felt that summer as if i was at the very beginning of things, the swell just visible before me)
i read it again two summers later, in italy, from a copy of the book i gave to my then boyfriend. i read it out in the open, where italian men and women were playing giant chess.
and i read it today, sure to acknowledge its brief resurgence before it retreats again for a few years. stories like this one, they know when to come and go. they know about timings and about release. they string together disparate versions of who we are and who we have been so that time, somehow, seems thicker, slow as honey.
stories are soundtracks. they fasten you anywhere.
‘… I see our mangled romance engulfed in a deep valley of mist between the crags of two matter-of-fact mountains: life had been real before, life will be real from now on, I hope. Not tomorrow, though. Perhaps after tomorrow.’