The pang of PMS still fresh and cutting, the nauseau pounding on in waves of melancholy uber-introspection, the thoughts pervading my conscious moments are not worth setting on the turntables of circular machinations.
Instead, I think of how happy I am to be in contact with Pierre again, by e-mail, granted, as he shuttles back and forth between Marseilles and somewhere in Sweden for his thesis defence, the knowledge that one of my smaller motivations behind returning to Europe was the promise that I would come see him again, this young man, two years my junior, who is at once more brilliant, more talented in all the things nearest my heart, and infinitely wiser than I.
And of course, as my juggling and Origami mentor... Of course I had to return. In a month, maybe two, we'll be subsidizing the SNCF and shuttling back and forth between there and here to catch up on how the world changes.
So much wonder was there in yesterday, the Yom-Kippur-like revival of old friendships (I can't believe I'm allowing myself to think of something judaic, I MUST be going soft), the forgiveness, the resolution of arguments, the appartment, the wine in celebration afterwards, so many, many things...
...And yet not one of them makes up for the fact that I couldn't be there with my Princess. I promised I'd be by her side, and I wasn't.
Princess, if I could transfer all the wonder that was in my heart yesterday to ease the pain of those fifteen minutes, I would do so without hesitation.
But I haven't figured out how to build tools for compassion yet, or I would have unleashed them on so many people...
Dammit, I still think we should put e in the vats at the Budweiser brewery. Anyone who drinks that shit is in need of a serious bout of the touchy-feelies.