Hi, Giedre.
Funny, the same as Martin was reading the first part at an airport, I’m reading this second part in an Airbnb place, which at times can be more isolating and sterile than hotels since they have not managed to master the art of fake familiarity hotels provide.
As I started to read the piece, a sense of dread came to me. A sense of, “I don’t want to know,” after reading the first part. How beautiful the intermingling of souls. Here, I didn’t matter I suspected the end, the consummation us men crave for, the broken link was also there, the sterility, the satisfaction of an itch that was now long gone and was a memory of an itch.
Memory. Right?
Why do we remember instead of feeling?
Or at least, continue the nosedive into whatever that first place was.
And as I was reading the story I could not keep this verse from one of Sabina’s songs out of my mind:
“En Comala comprendí,
Que al lugar donde has sido feliz,
No deberías tratar de volver”
But, who, Giedre, can avoid trying?
Beautiful bittersweet writing (ok, right, more bitter than sweet, right?)
Pablo