There was so much to love, I could not love it all;
I could not love it enough.”—Louise Bogan, in The Blue Estuaries: Poems (1923-1968), with thanks to journalofanobody (via growing-orbits)
“…a wise man in time of peace, shall make the necessary preparations for war.” –Horace
Why don’t we say goodbye right now in the fallacy of perfect health before whatever is going to happen happens. We could perfect our parting, like those characters in On the Beach who said farewell in the shadow of the bomb as we sat watching, young and holding hands at the movies. We could use the loving words we otherwise might not have time to say. We could hold each other for hours in a quintessential dress rehearsal.
Then we could just continue for however many years were left. The ragged things that are coming next— arteries closing like rivers silting over, or rampant cells stampeding us to the exit— would be like postscripts to our lives and wouldn’t matter. And we would bask in an early afterlife of ordinary days, impervious to the inclement weather already in our long-range forecast. Nothing could touch us. We’d never have to say goodbye again.