the bridges of madison county. perhaps it's true that love takes just a moment, but lasts a lifetime. perhaps it's true that a a lone moment of selfishness can make everything worthwhile once again. there's something to be marvelled at in the story of robert kincaid and francesca. unbelievable though it might appear. and that is that if the memory of a beautiful time spent together is enough to sustain two lives connected by a silent love across distance and the years, then i must make a beautiful memory in this life time.

And I won't need anything else. Yet there is something disturbing as well. were it not for the distance and the years, would love still remain? would proximity breed familiarity n familiarity monotony n monotony a dull comfort? is love (the sort that takes over your senses, that makes you lose yourself) to be the privilege of only those that have known it in all it's glory, but for an instant, and then let it go of their own accord because they feared its intensity. and what that power could do if given a chance. is love overwhelming, only when you know you cannot have it?