Would I love you the same way if I never had to die?

 “How much do you love me? Midori asked.

“Enough to melt all the tigers in the world to butter”, I said.

(Norwegian Wood – Haruki Murakami)

We all live knowing we are going to die someday. We accumulate things, we live fast. We think fast, we act fast as if there was no time to lose because we just have one life.

What happened if we never died and this life went on forever? Every action could be repaired. Time would never matter because we have time.

Would we love the same way? Would we give and receive the same way? Would there be the same emergency?

As for me would I love you the same way?

Probably I would take time to do it perfectly. Each time when I want to express my love for you, I would choose the best words, the most beautiful ones.

I would take back those furtive kisses given to you in the hurry of the nights. I would take all the time needed to kiss you and to enjoy your company. Time would be on my side.

I would wait for you in the infinity of time. Calm and quiet I would be. There would be no need to stress about days and nights.

But as I will die one day and this is an unchangeable truth, my love for you will never be calm and quiet.

As I never know when I will stop to breathe, and how many days left for me on earth, there is a necessity to love, to consume my love, to put it all out there. Shortage of time or the feeling of shortage of time boils in me.

Knowing that I don’t have the eternity ahead of me to endlessly love you has changed the consistence and substance of my love for you. Not calm, not quiet but poignant, stormy and agonizing.

That love looks like death, unavoidable and certain. With one difference. Death is not yet here. But my love is here and endures until the day death comes around.

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This is you taking me seriously

I would marry you if you were not only twenty.

You catch me each time I fall.

You said you were not nice on the phone.

And then you used words to comfort me.

You said I need bandage for my broken heart

And you can just stop a brain hemorrhage.

If I came to die, you could have my books, my piano and my harpsichord.

You yelled at me, you almost cried.

I withdraw these bad thoughts.

I would never let you live such sorrows.

Thanks for being just a bandage of my pain.

I need you, MD.

Silence sounds like death

Silence sounds like death.

Vacuumed in your silence

I can hear your death.

Slowly I decline.

Slowly I faint.

You chose silence through death

Both of you don’t want me

But I will come and I will join

Because I still try

To understand the mute words of yours

I have been childish

I have been anxious

But I will come and I will join

The silence in you.

A Death scene (Emily Brontë)

 O day! he cannot die
When thou so fair art shining!
O Sun, in such a glorious sky,
So tranquilly declining;
 
He cannot leave thee now,
While fresh west winds are blowing,
And all around his youthful brow
Thy cheerful light is glowing!
 
Edward, awake, awake–
The golden evening gleams
Warm and bright on Arden’s lake–
Arouse thee from thy dreams!
 
Beside thee, on my knee,
My dearest friend, I pray
That thou, to cross the eternal sea,
Wouldst yet one hour delay:
 
I hear its billows roar–
I see them foaming high;
But no glimpse of a further shore
Has blest my straining eye.
 
Believe not what they urge
Of Eden isles beyond;
Turn back, from that tempestuous surge,
To thy own native land.
 
It is not death, but pain
That struggles in thy breast–
Nay, rally, Edward, rouse again;
I cannot let thee rest!”
 
One long look, that sore reproved me
For the woe I could not bear–
One mute look of suffering moved me
To repent my useless prayer:
 
And, with sudden check, the heaving
Of distraction passed away;
Not a sign of further grieving
Stirred my soul that awful day.
 
Paled, at length, the sweet sun setting;
Sunk to peace the twilight breeze:
Summer dews fell softly, wetting
Glen, and glade, and silent trees.
 
Then his eyes began to weary,
Weighed beneath a mortal sleep;
And their orbs grew strangely dreary,
Clouded, even as they would weep.
 
But they wept not, but they changed not,
Never moved, and never closed;
Troubled still, and still they ranged not–
Wandered not, nor yet reposed!
 
So I knew that he was dying–
Stooped, and raised his languid head;
Felt no breath, and heard no sighing,
So I knew that he was dead.
**************************************
I was always busy.
I listened to you with half of my ears.
I never took you seriously
In your sorrows.
I laughed at you.
Your sadness seemed like a joke to me.
Your sickness a luxurious modern disease.
I forget to answer your letters.
I let your texts besides.
Until you are gone.
For real.
Now I believe you.
A bit too late.

Tribute to a noble profession

I started my day with a sad news. In the mailbox, a grey envelop. For a second, I was scared. Grey envelops never bring good news. I looked at the stamp. It came from a place which did not remind me of someone in particular. I opened it. And it was indeed not good. The kind man who had fabricated my harpsichord passed away a few days ago, at the age of 66. I was affected by the news.

I always have a deep admiration for these string-instrument makers. There is something very special about this profession. It has more to do with a passion for music than to make money. Besides, they are so rare.

Early December last year, when I was looking to purchase a harpsichord, I hardly found ten of them in all over the country. Then I went to this atelier, the closest to my city. That Saturday afternoon was heaven for me. The atelier was in an old house near the station. Mr. Käppeli (the manufacturer’s name) lives in the house and made it his atelier apparently. Three entire floors with harpsichords. He showed and explained to me each of them. He had let me try each one. All were made by his own hands. The one of the Italian period, painted in a beautiful dark red, produced a warm sound, yet the clavier was hard to play. The British harpsichord, in a pastel green, with flowers inside as ornaments, was distinguished. Its sound was languishing, like the voice of mermaids, sitting on some rocks, far away in the ocean. The French one, I remember, was smaller, with double keyboards, gave a pompous, slightly acute sound. They were all marvelous. My favorite was the one in the attic, not yet finished. A well-known harpsichord concert performer had ordered it. He said it would take him some more months to complete the work. Everything was hand-made. Each tiny piece, each string delicately posed. I just wonder if finally he had had enough time to finish it. Six months had gone by.

I chose a small spinet, which is manufactured exactly the same way as a harpsichord but much smaller. I did not have enough money  to buy the “real” harpsichord and it was also a matter of space for my flat. But I was happy with my choice because it was a good deal for a beginner. The sound was perfect. My teacher told me to always choose a hard clavier, which I did. A harpsichord needs as much care as a human being. Special attention is involved. The room must be humid by 50% so during the winter, a humidifier is required. No direct light should be on the instrument. But it was a real pleasure and it was my Christmas present. My spinet weighted around 60 pounds. I remember I helped Mr. Käppeli carrying it up to my flat on the second floor. He showed me how to tune it. I did not know that harpsichords have the same mechanic as guitars.

Today my spinet is orphan. I have discovered the most wonderful instrument. It has a special meaning to me because  when I am sad and lonely, my only remedy to that is practicing, playing hours and hours and it is the only moment I forget all sorrows.

When I started harpsichord after twenty years of piano and was completely carried away, my stepfather said to me: “It suits you well, I think, because this instrument is distant, cold, in a strange and noble way. The piano is more warmhearted. Harpsichord is like a silent movie and piano the one with dialogs. It suits you because you are cold and distant. You never let them out, your emotions, right?”.

I took the day off, practiced Bach the whole morning. Sorrows could not escape. I kept it all inside. My stepfather was right.

You still have a few options

He is back in 10 days.

To leave in 40 days.

What’s the point ?

Embrace him.

Tattoo his name.

Then walk away.

You will never survive

Another round of his absence.

Or

Kiss him through the 40 nights

Promise him you will love him

Forever and light

Then die.