It always comes down to the same thing. That feeling of breathlessness, of the clutching and unclutching of hearts, of the moment that lasts as long as tears clinging to lashes. The instinctive parting of lips, glazing of eyes, trembling of hands, the knowledge that rises to the surface: this is it, this is what you've been yearning for, this is mesmerising.
She finds it everywhere she goes. In the concert hall, with Beethoven's piano and Tchaikovsky's violins swirling around her. In the Silver Millennium, with the prince and princess twirling before her. In the Gateroom, where the Tau'ri and the Jaffa step into the event horizon and take her to a different world, a different galaxy. In the 19th Century, where the men in cravats and women in corsets teach her the cotillion. In the eyes of one who bewitches the mind and ensnares the senses. In the words of those who lived long ago and left their letters on her bedside table. In the scent of peonies, the texture of the Sahara, the sound of a poem read aloud. In the "thank you" from a stranger, the "goodbye" from a friend.
But sometimes, perhaps because she finds it so often or not enough, perhaps because she's looking in the wrong places, she becomes overwhelmed and starts to underappreciate. The familiar becomes boring, the novel becomes daunting, the loving becomes a chore. And she forgets that living, itself, is mesmerising.
Which is why she needs you to remind her.
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