I’m reminded of all of this as I wander the streets of Valletta: crossing paths with strangers, feeling the city evaporate before me, taking pictures to have evidence that I was here, that these fleeting moments existed.
But here, on this earth, the seasons change. And somewhere along the way, I lost him. To this day, I don’t know how, I don’t know where, I don’t know to whom, and I don’t know why.
But all that is irrelevant, as two more summers have come and gone. The only thing important to note: He was not the one.
And so I walked home. Part of me had wanted to say I did yearn for a summer love affair. But if I was to have a true love affair, it was going to be with Montreal, not a man.
There existed between them a suggestion that something that had shaped them before they met had primed them to become something close to soul mates. It was one of those assurances that hinted there was a little more order to the world than you thought, and made it a less lonely place to live in. —Christopher Rice, The Snow Garden A quote I had scribbled in one of my journals years ago. Still powerful, still relevant. The optimistic half of me believes this completely.
As a whole, The Garden of Earthly Delights is cohesive: the chaos, ultimately, makes sense. The first time I looked at it, in my art history class in high school, I was perplexed—even uneasy. Since then, this painting has become a metaphor for how I put things together, as a memoirist and thinker.