The red notebook
That day, he gave me a notebook to use. It was a hard-covered notebook with lined thick paper. He used only a few pages to jot down some notes. He wanted to tear them away, but I stopped him. I would love to keep your handwriting, I said.
I don't know how long he had this notebook, but I suspect it dated back to the mid 90s. What he forgot though, there was a page in the middle of the many blank pages, on which he wrote something very personal. While sitting in class, his mind must be wandering about, lingering on this woman, as beautiful as an exotic orchid flower. He must have felt this urge to write down the poetic sensations she aroused in him at the moment.
I kept the notebook for a while, hesitating whether I should be honest and return it to him. One day I pretended to find the page by accident and asked whether he wanted to keep it. My pretension was not very convincing, for he took the notebook and put it away, along with his handwriting I wanted to keep. The rest of the day, he was very much in his own thoughts.
I looked away, feeling embarrassed as if I broke my own cover. I must make peace with his past, never wonder what happened and who owned him. In order to love him, I must only focus on the presence and the future.
Love is an earthly thing. It tangles with daily necessities and duties. It requires constant maintenance and refreshment, like a vampire, can't survive without new blood. It can possess you, drain you, and estrange you.
It is a beautiful tender thing to have, but a hell to lose.
I don't know how long he had this notebook, but I suspect it dated back to the mid 90s. What he forgot though, there was a page in the middle of the many blank pages, on which he wrote something very personal. While sitting in class, his mind must be wandering about, lingering on this woman, as beautiful as an exotic orchid flower. He must have felt this urge to write down the poetic sensations she aroused in him at the moment.
I kept the notebook for a while, hesitating whether I should be honest and return it to him. One day I pretended to find the page by accident and asked whether he wanted to keep it. My pretension was not very convincing, for he took the notebook and put it away, along with his handwriting I wanted to keep. The rest of the day, he was very much in his own thoughts.
I looked away, feeling embarrassed as if I broke my own cover. I must make peace with his past, never wonder what happened and who owned him. In order to love him, I must only focus on the presence and the future.
Love is an earthly thing. It tangles with daily necessities and duties. It requires constant maintenance and refreshment, like a vampire, can't survive without new blood. It can possess you, drain you, and estrange you.
It is a beautiful tender thing to have, but a hell to lose.
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