No man has ever made me feel the way Pablo Neruda has.
I vividly remember unwrapping a gift from years ago. It was a book of his poems. Surely, I had known his poems from random sources but I didn't really had his book until then. Gingerly, I took the book out of its pure white wrapping and took off its gold flecks. I sat in my favorite velvet chair and started to read. Out loud.
And then I almost fell out of my chair.
'Every day you play' has then become my favorite Neruda poem, a poem that never fails to bring me to hills, to shores of the ocean where I haven't been lately. His poetry had been a constant source of romantic escapism that none of any literature I've read had done. It makes me wish I was at a time that distance and time meant nothing to love --- and that one would patiently wait and not check her phone, would not move on so fast, would not mean that waiting is a sin to the future.
Today I still find myself trying to catch my breath every time my eyes graze at his words. How love, longing, loss and a confluence of all things sad and beautiful can come together, Neruda only knows.
Thank you, thank you for the gift of Neruda.
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