Words That Change

The banks of misplaced pleasure

In diary on 26 October, 2012 at 16:51

You do feel more, when breaking up. It wasn’t so important, not such a big deal, easy to move on: the mind runs. There’s an Amsterdam beating in its autumnal colours and sights pleasingly gush by.

I walk past Sarphatipark, through a bustling square packed with coffee houses that spills to the south of Albert Cuyp. Unknown touristically, teeming with chatterati, freelancers seeking solitude. It’s just a coffee and a sandwich but there’s so much liberation in that. The stuffing of a few months of happiness – or just calm, relief – now unplugged and followed by a feeling of space, place and inwardness. Sides quietly painful and a sense of loss. I am in an all-white coffee house that also sells clothes.

It’s not so bad and it really is the right thing. For both of us. There’s really no choice in these things, is there? You’ve been some time alone and had hoped. But it just didn’t work out. The spark was there but no substantial flame. Not after five months. Perhaps I am just intolerant.

The morose turnings of a feeling mind, seeking to make final what was already known but would like to have justified. I’m oddly happy in the white with a content melancholy. The edges can be picked by me, and a centre revolves where I wish it to. The gentle circling of pain, the moving outward and acute observation. The entire world can become an inward space at such moments. The projection made clear – this is just numinous; chance.

I do not want to move from here. I want to know exactly what this feels like, and see a face dipping in and out of feelings. A sandwich arrives with aubergine and spicy cheese. Expensive, it takes all of four minutes to finish and I am out again in the inconstant sun, less steady wind and chatterati filling shops and streets with noise.


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