There is sorrow and there is ache; where it feels as if all is lost, and nothingness is all there is to exist. An ache in the heart of which its origins will remain forever unknown. An ache, not at all due to love, or of which the entirety of the ache is not all due to love. The weight of the night is felt upon my heart, as if to pull me down to drown into an ocean of incompletion. It is now, that I write the saddest lines, for it is sincere, and felt upon every fibre of my being, every breath of my soul. I cannot say what it is that pains me, for it is not what, nor whom, nor which, but instead all that is. The sorrow I feel is intrinsic, and it takes every drop of strength left in my being to purge it. Purge it from myself. Purge, myself.


Bright Star ~ John Keats

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art--
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--
No--yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath

Labels: Reveries

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