Ticket Stubs and Marcel
Last night I was sitting in my apartment, listening to the radio and trying to do some work when a song came on that reminded me of someone. A good friend? Nay I say. A song an ex-girlfriend of mine loved once upon a time. Considering that I have been reading Alain de Botton's On Love, I decided to turn off the radio. So I got up, flicked it off, and decided to do a little light reading to take my mind off the past. Digging around in my bookshelf I came across a paperback I hadn't seen in a long time. I opened it up and saw the bookmark: a stub for a movie I saw more than a few years ago. It was for one of those artsy-fartsy sorts of art films I saw at the Tate Center when I was living in Athens.
For some reason, the stub evoked a deep emotion within me. It brought back all the sights and smells of that night. The girl I was with, the dinner she cooked for me that night, how we joked before the movie, how we snuggled during it, how we made love afterwords, everything. How strong a simple ticket stub is when you compare it to the forgetfullness and apathy of everyday life. How strong the human memory when looking back on good times. How strange that we forget the bad parts. Man I need to read more Proust.
For some reason, the stub evoked a deep emotion within me. It brought back all the sights and smells of that night. The girl I was with, the dinner she cooked for me that night, how we joked before the movie, how we snuggled during it, how we made love afterwords, everything. How strong a simple ticket stub is when you compare it to the forgetfullness and apathy of everyday life. How strong the human memory when looking back on good times. How strange that we forget the bad parts. Man I need to read more Proust.
