Memories

The soft-hearted, broken Delirium, asks Morpheus at one point: “What’s the word for things not being the same always. You know. I’m sure there is one. Isn’t there?” Dream names the word for her. “Change,” he says. She also asks him: “What’s the name for the precise moment when you’ve actually forgotten how it felt to make love to somebody you really liked a long time ago?” Dream replies: “There isn’t one.” Says Delirium: “Oh. I thought maybe there was.” Delirium’s right, of course: there is one, and I think that in his heart, Dream knew it – but he wasn’t yet ready to speak it. That word is: “Mercy,” and it stands for an attribute that does not always fare well in the hard realities of waking life. It is only readily available, in fact, in that odd realm known as dreaming, and even there its blessings are epheremal.

Mikal Gilmore

Going through my old stuff (junk of years long gone) has reminded me of people I’ve forgotten, some of them quite a long time ago. That quote from the introduction to Neil Gaiman’s awesome book The Wake, touched me deeply. It is a mercy to forget those things. And, in some cases, it is painful to notice you’ve forgotten. That something that was once the most beautiful thing in the world can’t be recalled anymore. It doesn’t even matter how good everything is for you now, how much better or more or how happy you are with what you have. Moments that made you who you are have vanished from your memory. First real kiss with anyone, your last kiss with the beautiful boi, and all that came in between…

In dreams, sometimes, I remember, just to forget as I wake up. Mercy is a blessed thing.

urgh

It is a really nasty feeling having strangers in your home. We are moving in together with my gf and obviously so my old flat is going to turn into someone else's home. That means I'm having a sort of open house going on for the next hour. Complete strangers come into my home and look at it and ask questions and generally are just, you know, in my space.

My friends now that I don't mind having guests over, even when I haven't cleaned (because then I'd never have anyone over). But that is so different. Now my home looks messy because all the boxes and other stuff that's just in where there happens to be place for it to be put down until I pack it away. I know these people come see the flat but still. It's my flat. With my crumbling walls. And cracked ceiling. And the dumb kitchen. Mine mine mine and don't you dare to judge it.

Half an hour to go...