Posted by: cousindampier | 25 January 2014

Things Written in a Better Way Than I Can Write Them: The Chelsea Fagan Edition

From Chelsea Fagan’s Blog:

I remember walking across the bridge to my apartment, very late at night (or early in the morning), when the only thing to listen to was the sound of the street sweepers and the water lapping against the quays. I had taken the long way again without realizing it, and I stopped about halfway across the bridge to look out onto the water.

It felt like I could see everything, like the whole city was just for me and no one else could ever really know what it felt like. My cheeks were flushed with wine and I knew that I could sleep all morning, and all I wanted was to stay in the middle of the river, between the two sides of the city, watching the last of the night owls click their lights off in their windows.

The city was so small and quiet at night, with low buildings and narrow streets and old statues that stood at nearly every corner. Sometimes I would climb the (mostly superfluous) gates around my favorite park and sit between the rows of tall, immaculately shaped trees. I would bring a bottle of cheap champagne and call my friends and tell them to meet me for a late-night drink. 

But not that night. That night, I was alone on the bridge, watching the boats bob up and down, seeing the windows go black. And there were no friends to call, because it was too late. It was always moments like that which made me so sad, because even with a camera I could never capture what it felt like. I could never take it with me. I could never hear the sound of the street sweepers, or feel the way the air nipped at me even in summer, or watch the streetlights twinkle off the water. With my friends in the park, at least I could ask them later, “Wasn’t that great?” and they could tell me that it was.

Being all alone with beauty might be the hardest thing in the world. 

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