Being with you and not being with you is the only way I have to measure time.
—
Jorge Luis Borges
It’s in my nature to be cynical, and I know that with all of my criticisms of cuddly She & Him or The Notebook (why, Gosling? You could’a had it all!), and even more so, with my apparent inability to connect with other human beings, you might not expect that I’m a romantic. And I’m not, because based on my experience, just about everything you hear is regurgitated, clichéd bullshit that makes you feel stupid in the end for believing it at all.
Sometimes, though—be it rarely—I read a passage that surprises me. A genuine thought that I actually gives me some hope for the prospect of affection (or even love) at all. Borges can do that. So can Neruda. Or Saint-Exupéry. And I suppose that’s the way it should be, because sincere words are more valuable when you have to dig for them.
