A partridge in a Portree

I never forgot the 21st. It was arguably the best hour and a half of my life, and a year later, oblivion...

Spent my first week of holiday gallivanting around Skye, thinking exactly about the same day last year when I lost Ainhoa, where I faltered, and where I stumbled apart. It was disastrous, but it was glorious in the moment, and it is just unimaginable to fathom where I would end up now when my hope back then was at an all-time high. Prior to leaving for Gran Canaria, I kind of anticipated that outcome, but not to that same extent, a slow death, clinging on to unheeded desperation. She was as beautiful as beautiful can ever be, and I was just me, belittled by mine own defeat. It was hard because red flags were sprinkled all throughout that condensed time, and yet I ignored it, just completely enamoured by the nymph that drew me in wholeheartedly since the start. A love that grew from a lot of doubt. A few vignettes of warnings from someone who supposedly cared. Where have my life been after all that time? And yet still even now I am enraptured by memories of her incandescent presence in my soul. The only one to ever truly exist in corporeal essences, even if now that absence proves permanence and regret eternal.

If only... but if only if onlys were unironically recoverable. They are not. Hope is not dead, but this form will die before the next opportunity comes in some wave or form. In an eternal avenue of space and time, it is very much possible, and that thought is all that pleases me. Perhaps not as me, but as an entropied me, or an unadulterated one.