slumdog

The first time I saw ‘slumdog millionaire’ I wrote this 02/08/09:

He says we can live on love. It’s a dynamic and endless theme – love, love, love without food or water we could live on love. I’ve always thought this, wouldn’t your body confine itself to the knowledge, your brain working to remind your stomach it was full of everything else. Consumed by the power, and overwhelming sensation of it, when you have nothing this notion is so much better than the alternative – having nothing with no one. The problems of our childhood melt away like shadows in the night, monsters ridden and bound together elsewhere in our memories. Sure, we could live on love. Our thirst for anything else would be redefined.



The second time this evening I wrote this:

It occurred to me that few people fight for love. The mere substance of it bounces away into the sheer depth of the night, the darkness swaying only apathy. How can love be such an easy word? Flexible in it’s ground, the way it rolls off the tongue. Some love is destiny, ripped from the headlines of your heart and soul. I could be foolish in saying so but I just do not think so. I would rather fight, with blood stained limbs – and a damaged heart than give up entirely on it altogether. Yes. I have not forgotten for one moment, and the reflection of real love lingers like an extra limb, another heart protruding in my chest.