Carmina III by Catullus

All you Loves and Cupids cry
and all you men of feeling
my girl’s sparrow is dead,
my girl’s beloved sparrow.
She loved him more than herself.
He was sweeter than honey, and he
knew her, as she knows her mother.
He never flew out of her lap,
but, hopping about here and there,
just chirped to his lady, alone.
Now he is flying the dark
no one ever returns from.
Evil to you, evil Shades
of Orcus, destroyers of beauty.
You have stolen the beautiful sparrow from me.
Oh sad day! Oh poor little sparrow!
Because of you my sweet girl’s eyes
are red with weeping, and swollen.



Lugete, o Veneres Cupidinesque,
et quantum est hominum venustiorum:
passer mortuus est meae puellae,
passer, deliciae meae puellae,
quem plus illa oculis suis amabat.
nam mellitus erat suamque norat
ipsam tam bene quam puella matrem,
nec sese a gremio illius movebat,
sed circumsiliens modo huc modo illuc
ad solam dominam usque pipiabat.
qui nunc it per iter tenebricosum
illuc, unde negant redire quemquam.
at vobis male sit, malae tenebrae
Orci, quae omnia bella devoratis:
tam bellum mihi passerem abstulistis
o factum male! o miselle passer!
tua nunc opera meae puellae
flendo turgiduli rubent ocelli.

It gets better with experience

A friend of mine commented recently on the plight of his adolescent son. The poor lad had recently split up with his girlfriend and was feeling rather down. My first instinct was to think how dreadful heartache is at such a tender age, especially when one had such high hopes and is convinced it is the real thing. When one is so young, one is determined to prove to all the adults that what the lovers share is authentic and has the same gravitas as grown-up relationships. It is almost an exercise in validation vis-a-vis the adult world. One cannot help but feel that adults are gently mocking the relationship and it is not until one reflects on past school crushes and sweethearts that one fully takes on board the comparative insignificance of the interlude in the grand scale of things. Other lovers come and go and feelings subsume anything that has been previously felt. Each time one is convinced it's the real thing. Yet with each relationship one learns new things and improves one's game. Learns how to be more open, or less indiscreet, and other such idiosyncracies.

But it also occurred to me that despite all of this, heartbreak is one thing that does not get easier with experience. No matter how many times one goes through it, it always feels so utterly devastating. And it does not get easier to bounce back and recover from a break-up. If it does, that is more of a reflection on the true nature of the relationship and its lack of value compared to previous lovers. Alternatively, it might be symptomatic of how cumulative heartbreaks permanently impair one's ability to properly love freely and fully. It hurts less when it ends because you didn't let your guard down and get in too deep. You didn't commit and make yourself vulnerable - completely at the mercy of someone who has the exclusive power to smash your heart to pieces and reduce you to a sobbing wreck. You didn't trust them this time.

A sophisticated defence mechanism? Maybe. Or perhaps one is genuinely damaged with each break-up and simply incapable of loving to the same capacity. Almost like gluing a broken jug back together. It will never be as strong and watertight as before, no matter how much superglue you use. And even if it is watertight, it still bears the ugly, clumsy joins. Not quite the same as before. It becomes easier to smash as there are fault lines. If the breaks reoccur on the same lines, then fine - you already know how to repair the damage. But a new crack means a new fragment and increased fragility. It also means decreased capacity to contain anything and new lovers circle each other warily like two tigers in a cage. Each one reluctant to make the first move yet ready to flee if necessary. This begs the question, can one ever find love after betrayal?

Precious things

Yesterday I had been doing a bit of tidying up and reorganising of my bedroom. While sorting through various items in my top drawer, I found a vintage handbag in which I keep small relics of my previous lovers. As a general rule, I don't keep photographs, but prefer to rely on my memory for that. However, I like to retain little things that remind me of special times that I might otherwise forget. Letters, train tickets, trinkets, museum passes... It gives one the option of being able to summon a memory almost on demand. All one needs to do is find the item and it all comes flowing back - the smell of the grass, the strawberry stain on the kid gloves, the bright sunshine.

I spent a moment looking through the contents of the bag as I had a particular craving for one memory in particular, embodied by a place card with a little message written on it. It was special because it had been given to me on the night that I met this certain chap but also because it was the only souvenir I had of him and his illegible, arachnid scrawl. It wasn't there. I searched everywhere and noticed that I was starting to get frantic. This was strange because I had thought that I was over this chap. We had had a brief but intense interlude almost exactly two years ago. However, he left me utterly enchanted. I had never quite bonded with someone on an intellectual level like him. He was naughty, but nice, a gentleman, yet in some respects a cheeky cad, always impeccably turned out and professional. We also had a lot in common due to our work, and it was a refreshing change to be able to talk to someone about my day and have them understand completely.

To my great relief I eventually found the card after some time fretting. It occurred to me that this chap had obviously meant more to me than I had initially thought. But there had never been any question of it lasting more than the brief interlude it was. This was largely due to circumstance and the fact that my better judgment always screamed that he was intrinsically wrong for me, no matter how good me made me feel. He had got in touch with me recently after a long hiatus, which may have initiated this nostalgia for him. Since then, I have dearly wanted to talk to him again. Nothing romantic. No kisses or caresses. Just a nice chat. I do hope that wherever he is now, he is happy.

Apres un reve

Last night I dreamt we had a blazing argument. This was odd mainly because we've never rowed. I dreamt I was lying in bed and waiting for you to join me. I wasn't wearing anything. You wanted to wear my pyjamas because you felt uncomfortable sharing a bed with me in a state of undress. I didn't want you to wear them because they needed to be washed, but I didn't want to tell you this. Besides, it wasn't as though you'd never seen me disrobed. It was hardly my fault that you'd decided to end things yet still wished to share a bed with me. We argued. And I woke up feeling strange and alone, thinking how I'd rather have you there arguing with me than somewhere else forgetting me.

Move along, move along, there's nothing to see here...