| name | value |
| location | Melbourne |
| date | 2025-07-25 |
| slug | before-sunset |
Strolls in a city.
Seven years ago I wrote this about the film Before Sunset (or sunrise? I can’t remember):
„You know how Céline was saying at the beginning about how things would end—how she saw that moment as the start of a countdown, like a timer ticking toward an inevitable explosion. It was as if she imagined love or connection as something destined to combust, to vanish all at once in a flash.
But as I was watching it, I kept feeling that it wasn’t like a bomb at all. It didn’t feel sudden or dramatic. It felt more like noticing a single strand of wool sticking out from a jumper. You might start fiddling with it, thinking maybe this one pull would fix it. Sometimes it even seemed like you had fixed it—snipped the loose thread, smoothed it over. But then it would come back, or another would appear. And with each tug, things got a little worse. Eventually, the whole fabric began to unravel. Not with a bang, but with a quiet, persistent undoing.
This is how I feel about the ending of love. At least this is what happens to me when I’ve truly loved. It is not a dramatic explosion, but something slower, more insidious, and perhaps more realistic: the quiet, gradual fraying of connection. A kind of erosion that happens not in a single moment, but over time—almost imperceptibly—until one day, the whole thing has come apart. And when it finally does, it’s almost as expected. Yet still very, very sad.“
Seven years later, I find this text still so hauntingly relatable. It wasn’t just about love or time—it was about how fragile the weave of connection can be, and how easily it can fray, even when you are trying to hold it together. Perhaps it needs both people holding. Perhaps not even that is enough.