first time for everything

The other day, Chris lent me one of his books, Haruki Murakami's South of the Border, West of the Sun (or Kokkyō no minami, taiyō no nishi). Previously, he lent me Roald Dahl's Tales of the Unexpected (The Landlady, Taste, and The Way Up to Heaven). Wonderfully twisted and sometimes scary stories that hooked my eyeballs and kept them strained on the pages until the end.

Back to Murakami. I've never read any of his books before South of the Border and I wasn't quite sure what to expect. Especially when Chris handed it to me and said simply, "It's not for prudes." I'm halfway through the book and every night, I have to pry the book from my fingers since I still had work the next morning. More on it when I finish reading.

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At work a few days ago, Rica (

nano_speaks

) sent me a poem from Pablo Neruda. She despises Paulo Coehlo and decided that if I must have mush in my life, then I should have mush in good taste. Anyway, she sent me Tonight I Can Write the Saddest Lines by Pablo Neruda.

Heart wrenching. It feels like somebody rips you heart out, puts it in a blender, hits puree, and adds salt and pepper to taste.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example,'The night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.








Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me sometimes, and I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.











To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.



What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.


This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight searches for her as though to go to her.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before.
Her voice. Her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.








Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.





















This poem spells out what I felt when PEXBF1, PEXGF1,  and PEXBF2 left me behind all those years ago. Weirdly, my heart doesn't ache for them anymore, it's just that my brain feels hurt that it had been so stupid and my pride kicks itself for those momentary periods of insanity. I mean, I did love them (a tad too much) but thankfully, not anymore.

There IS a first time for everything. It just so happened that my firsts for this week were incredibly mushy. Now I feel lonely again. *sigh* Dammit. Hurry up, Mr. Darcy! Where the bloody hell are you? T___T