Wednesday, 13 February 2013

"Here's looking at you, Kid."

And here, is realization, looking at me.
I have to confess. I Love You. And not the easy to ignore-somewhere in the back of my mind-sure someday-kinda love. I mean the kind that you need to capitalize each word in the sentence for-kind of love. I love You. I Love you. sigh.

I wish I never have to see your face, never have to see you smile. never have to see you not. never have to hear another joke about your love. I wish I never have to sense it or feel it. and I would die to be able to avoid that. I hate that I love you much more than I love you.

Its giving me a sense of morbidity and a derivative peace to keep repeating the phrase.

"Rick: I'm saying it because it's true. Inside of us, we both know you belong with Victor. You're part of his work, the thing that keeps him going. If that plane leaves the ground and you're not with him, you'll regret it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of your life.
Ilsa: But what about us?
Rick: We'll always have Paris. We didn't have it before...we'd...we'd lost it until you came to Casablanca. We got it back last night.
Ilsa: When I said I would never leave you...
Rick: And you never will. But I've got a job to do too. Where I'm going, you can't follow. What I've got to do, you can't be any part of. Ilsa, I'm no good at being noble, but it doesn't take much to see that the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Someday you'll understand that. Now, now. Here's looking at you, kid."