Last Friday’s display of barbarism cast a pall over our trip to Athens, and even now, a week later, I find that my thoughts are still scattered.
I like to think that we’ll go back, that we’ll eventually climb the Acropolis again, and that next time, I’ll be armed with scopolamine, so we’ll take a boat to one of the islands. I’d like to see more of the ruins, the Purrito wants to see the blue waters of the Mediterranean, and both of us want to rent a donkey and spend the day laughing at something as stubborn as each of us is, as we attempt to cajole it into going where we want.
We’re not returning to the States for a few months, but I’m already hoping that we’ll be able to come back to France. I wonder though, if a vacation is just going to be a tease, a cruel reminder of something we once had, a time that we’d enjoyed, a moment in our lives that we can’t go back to.
These aren’t questions that are appropriate if one is living in the moment, which is something both of us have been trying to help each other do; it’s easy to give up, to check out, to say that we’re going to be headed back anyway, that we might as well get on with the rest of our lives.
That’s antithetical to life though, isn’t it? Has not this been our life? Are we not justified in responding to anyone droning on about a return to “the real world” with a “fuck off?”
This is our here.
This is our now.
Perhaps I’ve yet to figure out how to handle knowing that nothing lasts forever.
This post did not go where I expected it to.
I suppose there’s a lesson in that.