Time, that double-edge sword, treacherous friend, who turns into honey even the bitterest of memories. It tricks us into giving more value to things that would have otherwise been worthless. A newspaper clipping, 50 years added, will become an invaluable relic and a window to a distant past. A teenage crush is a passionate love in the heart of an old man. We worship magnificent castles that belonged to ancient tyrants, forgetting the many lives that perished under their rule.
Time is a painter whom with its soft colors almost imperceptibly decorates our memory. With its graceful hands every instant becomes a true chef-d’œuvre capable of inspiring the deepest emotions.
I am here, here as an adjective of time, standing at Pont Neuf, the oldest bridge in Paris. I can appreciate this moment in its full splendorous beauty. I think not of the history of this place, nor the story behind its paradoxical name. I look at the sun as it descends, marking the end of a moment that will be later remembered. I am not a victim of time, yet.
But even I cannot deny that perhaps many years from now, I will be standing on this very spot, or maybe not even, and time will easily turn the contemplation of this moment into something even more stunning.
I can only hope that when it happens, my heart is able to bear such intensity.