Passion

Was sitting in an empty pantry, preparing for a really long work week. Thought about the film I just watched last night with V, "The Girl with a Pearl Earring." And also thinking about me and V. Passion. A kind of passion that one takes to the grave. Death and passion. How ironic. But always, I think of them both at the same instant. How closely knit they are. To think of life at its most vibrant, most glorious, is also to contrast it to death. I love V. And maybe beyond the drumbeats of my heart, he has come to be a part of my soul. The smoke that rises from the heat in my veins. The steady, cool rock beneath my feet. I love him so. And then there... as I think of my love for him. I think of my own death. And how I will take his embrace to my grave. Like that Vermeer painting... beyond the moments that built up to make such a masterpiece, there is one image that remains. One smoldering, priceless image that survives separation, death, forgetfulness.