“Please write, long long letters, all about yourself and if you like me. That is what I want. I don’t really read anything with interest except your letters.”
— Virginia Woolf
I walked outside this evening, and looked up at the sky…and it was so clear. So, so clear, like the little rainstorm we had at the very end of the afternoon had cleansed the sky or something like that. So many points of silver in the star-host…so bright and magical…something almost holy, mystical, sparkling scintillas of wonder. I just stared and stared and stared, enraptured.
And I felt it. That memory stirring. The old wonder, my old self. Just for a breath, but it was there.
There is magic all around, still. I think it’s just a matter of stopping, breathing in, letting go, and opening your eyes.
“All light is sacred to the Eldar, but the Wood Elves love best the light of the stars … It is memory, precious and pure. I have walked there sometimes, beyond the forest and up into the night. I have seen the world fall away and the white light forever fill the air…”
— Tauriel, The Desolation of Smaug
A little bit of a personal post, perhaps…
“Andreth adaneth, the life and love of the Eldar dwells much in memory; and we (if not ye) would rather have a memory that is fair but unfinished than one that goes on to a grevious end. Now will he ever remember thee in the sun of morning, and that last evening by the water of Aeluin in which he saw thy face mirrored with a star caught in thy hair – ever, until the North-wind brings the night of his flame. Yea, and after that, sitting in the House of Mandos in the halls of Awaiting until the end of Arda.”
“And what shall I remember?” said she. “And when I go to what halls shall I come? To a darkness in which even the memory of the sharp flame shall be quenched? Even the memory of rejection. That at least.”