Notturno

It feels like it gets dark earlier and earlier every night.  This afternoon the entire sky was a brilliant slate-gray blue, like the universe had washed over everything with liquid mercury.

Thanks to Prof. Valenza, I've added a fair amount of classical music to my personal library and I've been getting back into the Debussy/Prokofiev/Mozart/Beethoven/Borodin/Chopin habit.  Even though I haven't built up an association complex with many of these pieces the way I've built them up with certain songs or musical artists (listening to anything on The Dust of Retreat is a straight mindtrip back to junior year), anything in my classical music library brings me immediately to a specific memory or person or place.  This particular week, I'm taking myself back to all the people I've loved and who have loved me, and naturally that kind of trip inspires a lot of introspection.

Anyone who tells you that a relationship, friendly or romantic or otherwise, is over is lying to you.  The people we make room for in our lives leave marks and reminders that don't go away.  We move past feelings, but we never get rid of them.  A small, strange part of me will always be a little heartbroken that my first high school crush never professed his love and another part of me will always desperately miss those beautiful people I met in San Francisco two or three summers ago.  It's easy to forget the past, especially when what you have now seems to fill you to the brim.  Maybe that's why I've returned to classical music.  It's a beautiful, unreal reminder that everything and everyone you invested yourself in is still here.  That those little parts of you aren't dead.  That they are very, very real, and that they are very much alive.