I think I probably trust him with my life. My feelings for him are like morning dew drops on the leaves of small trees that line the banks of the Amstel, which glide slowly off the leaves and collapse, in free fall, into something vaster than themselves. A whole river, for instance. My feelings for him in discrete moments with him - dressed in orange in a park in Amsterdam or a club in The Hague with his arms around my waist, sipping summer cocktails in a chilly Scheveningen while the sun slowly sets before our eyes, resting my head on his back, my eyes closed, as he navigates the streets of Amsterdam on his bicycle - are no match for the sum of their parts. I collapse into him anew each time; I fell in love with him again tonight. When he departed for home in Amsterdam, I was left with a holistic and wholesome contentedness at how real and how right this love feels.
I think this is what remains after the ephemeral mist of a new dawn eventually fades. It's the lasting force of a river that extends and stretches itself over a city, through history - and over time. It's the trust that I place in the words that he uses to articulate a plan for our future, the trust that I place in him. It's the pure contentment and tentative but palpable excitement over the prospect of an undefined period of time that can be termed 'our future'. It's the knowledge of the realness of this love, and the surprisingly ready and willing belief in its special lasting force.
I can't believe he's mine; my Mr. Perfect.
Watched another football match: Australia vs. The Netherlands. It wasn't as exciting as the 5-1 trashing of Spain, but it was good that the Dutch team won in the end. We were in a club (the only club I've been to in The Hague) because the Plein was packed with people and there wasn't anywhere else better to go. The club was full too. Every time the Dutch team scored, arms were thrusted into the air, screams were let out, and of course, beer flew everywhere.
It was fun to be almost drowned out in a sea of orange. There were obnoxious people - men, mostly - shouting at the screen, as if it would've made any difference, and whistling really sharply and behaving like stereotypical drunk white people (this is not meant to be racist), but they didn't bother us, so whatever.
I'm going to be spending my weekends preparing really hard for the QLTS because I am running out of time. I found out that the Wimbledon final is on the Sunday before the week of my test. Just great. If Roger makes it and I can't watch it, I'm going to be mad...oh wait, who am I kidding? As if I would miss watching Roger play for the chance to lift a record-breaking 8th Wimbledon title!
Off to bed. So tired.