Therefore, the places in which we have experienced day dreaming reconstitute themselves in a new daydream, and it is because our memories of former dwelling-places are relived as day-dreams these dwelling-places of the past remain in us for all the time.
And it’s still on repeat. Up till now.
Any song from Plans is strong enough to trigger memories, joy, and pain. They are linked to the people I got to meet along the way, and the journeys I started out on. A Stable Song for York, and the tranquility of a gracefully ageing place – just seems to be calling for you to pass by every day.
This afternoon I was going through the photos, all 4000 together, and I ran through the album over. and over again. Oftentimes, the photos were almost overwhelming – enough to bring tears to my eyes; only to refrain from crying; for tears are to be rationed these days.
Why do you go away? So that you can come back. So that you can see the place you came from with new eyes and extra colors. And the people there see you differently, too. Coming back to where you started is not the same as never leaving.
I know something about me was different ever since that trip – but I’m not too sure what it is. Could it be that I left my heart buried or tied to some tree I was drawn to, or has it drowned in the oceans we got to get so close to? Perhaps the reluctant part of me who was so drawn to nature’s beauty stayed on. I miss the adventures, and the liberation, and.. just being out there, alone. The peace and tranquility gives me time for myself, to reflect. I miss the oceans, the rocks, and the laughter that drowns in the melodies of swash and backwash. I miss the empty roads. I miss my sister, and my best friend who has now gone to join her in pursuing their education over there, down under. In Perth. Tracing the five alphabets repetitively over my lips – I am thirsty for it.
The memories, on a constant replay – and then I see your face. I think of your texts. I think of your kindness, and your smile. I think of how you always make me smile, and how our eyes meet when we scan the room for each other, first things first. I think of you falling fast asleep, sleeping on the floor, while I, on the sofa. Sleeping adjacent to each other, knowing that you wouldn’t be freezing in your car. I think of the non-existent moments we might have had. We could have been in Freo for dinner. yes, there was a possibility. Either way, I was happy we got to share the joy amongst us and radiate it to those around us.
The cost of oblivious daydreaming was always this moment of return, the realignment with what had been before and now seemed a little worse. Her reverie, once rich in plausible details, had become a passing silliness before the hard mass of the actual. It was difficult to come back.
I still remember why the trip was somewhat a turning point, and it was very much about witnessing the grace and awe from selfless service. The resolution of people. The kindness, initiative, and willingness in abundance. That sort of love is so pure, the purest of them all.
In a place so huge I enjoyed both the companionship and time for introspection. In moderation, in balance, and a reality check. Beautiful, this period was. Idealistic too, because it was pleasant, it was insightful; and it felt like dreams that used to be think-images became alive and free.
Memories, they fade over time. And I might miss out on the little details in between, but I hope they will always be a part of me, muscle memory, perhaps.
Perth, I miss you. The number of times I lose myself in a daydream just to relive those moments – they’re increasingly frequent. Like a relapse, but also therapy, at the same time.
A certain amount of reverie is good, like a narcotic in discreet doses. It soothes the fever, occasionally high, of the brain at work, and produces in the mind a soft, fresh vapor that corrects the all too angular contours of pure thought, fills up the gaps and intervals here and there, binds them together, and dulls the sharp corners of ideas. But too much reverie submerges and drowns. Thought is the labor of the intellect, reverie it’s pleasure. To replace thought with reverie is to confound poison with nourishment. (Victor Hugo, Les Miserables)
How long more would I have to wait, before I can satisfy my lust for mother nature’s touch once more? Till then, I shalt indulge in daydreams once more.