Journal Entries
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Bon Journal
Two hours into the sunset
I don't like talking on the telephone for too long. I don't like being
on the Internet for too long. The latter is addictive, and the former
a challenge.
So it was not at all precedented that I spent so much time today on
a long distance call in my loft room not merely watching the sunset. The
person on the other end was telling me a beautiful love story, almost
too good to be true. It took a full two hours for him to describe two
lovers in their quest for reunion.
It was like watching a rainbow appear and then disappear into the mist.
In the first instance, you could hardly recognise it as being a rainbow
- or being love, for that matter.
They met at a posh hotel. She was tired of travelling and longed to
return home. They were informed of each others' existence by a mutual
friend. Neither expected anything to come out of this.
It was certainly not love at first sight. For one thing, she was allergic
and vehemently opposed to cigarette smoke. And when they had first spoken
on the phone the previous day, the second thing she asked him was whether
he smoked. He had hesitated and tried to dodge the question by asking,
"what kind of smoke?" Then he had answered,"not very much."
So already, she had pigeonholed him into the "smoker" category,
i.e. the untouchables.
Meanwhile, he was in love with a woman who was off limits, and one who
was not available to him at all . In a way, it allowed him to experience
the feelings of love without the time and effort required. Having just
ended a dead relationship, she was not about to get involved with anyone
so easily.
But what took them by surprise was the ease with which they were able
to communicate and interact. In hindsight, they realised that they hadn't
said much in those two hours into the sunset, but they had said everything
they needed to say. In those two hours, they verbalised their dreams.
It was the same dream: to travel around the world, to compose and perform
their own music, and to share this beautiful experience with everyone.
In the next weeks and months, they communicated everyday by email, phone,
voicemail, letters, text messaging, online chats, and even combinations
of the above. It seemed as though the harder it was to be together, the
more they wanted to be together.
They wanted only to give and to express their desire for each other.
It was like a competition to see who could do more. They wrote poems,
stories, and music. They immediately committed their schedules to visit
each other.
As the storyteller ended his account of this love story, I watched the
sun sink into the horizon. As far as I could tell, the story was not finished.
Only the telephone conversation has ended. Would they be able to overcome
the barriers, not all of which are apparent? Or would they perform scenario
analysis and rationalise themselves out of this long distance relationship?
Recently my Buddhist friend told me that many people love not because
they want to be loved but that they are afraid of not being loved. He
also said that being single is at least as good as or better than having
to put up with the s**t of being in a relationship. And that "to
love, is to give up the love." It all seemed too cynical to me.
I wonder if everything has to be planned and expected. I wonder if the
best things in life are truly unexpected and free. When I see couples
kiss passionately on train platforms or at airports, I wonder whether
they are really in love or just showing off. But I'm convinced now, after
this story, that there are couples who are so in love that they would
care less about what goes on around them. Indeed, the heart knows no bounds.
3 June 2001
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Love is a many splendoured thing. This afternoon, my neighbour visited
me for tea. She chose this piece for me to play. Perhaps she knows that
love is a many splendoured thing. I don't. Let me find out. Hence, this
story.
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