Random Thought

It always seems that the moment of losing something incomparably beautiful, even though you knew that it probably couldn't last, always comes at the time when you need that thing the most. In despondency, you reach out for it and find it isn't there. I guess the experience is akin to visiting a cherished garden in winter: only the memory suffices to fill the absence of the blossoms and to breathe color into something dead. We tell ourselves that the memory is enough, but what a delusion this can be!

"This is the way the world ends / Not with a bang but a whimper," Eliot said, and again I am reminded of how ineffably more tragic that ending truly is.