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| | | | I am: yet what I am none cares or knows,
My friends forsake me like a memory lost;
I am the self-consumer of my woes,
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shades in love and death's oblivion lost;
And yet I am! and live with shadows tost
Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life nor joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;
And e'en the dearest--that I loved the best--
Are strange--nay, rather stranger than the rest.
I long for scenes where man has never trod;
A place where woman never smil'd or wept;
There to abide with my creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept:
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie;
The grass below--above the vaulted sky.
John Clare |
This poem is terribly, terribly haunting and describes the torment John Clare went through in his days in the asylum. Many great artists and poets never made it good till the brink of mental insanity or the romanticised kiss of death; the awareness of the former must have been painful. |
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| To know what the problem is, to know the solution that will change everything for the better BUT not do anything about it, is a carnal sin. So, change. | | |
| I wonder if one can ever be on the bad side of , well , the start of quarter life. Celebrating Chris's bday yesterday and being surrounded by people a good 6 years younger made us feel very much like older sisters crashing a party for the new 18s. Nothing beats a reality check at a party joint. There'll come a time when we will be barred from the club. (Tell me about it, less-than-a-decade-more-to-go.. thirrrty-five 3-5.) The young little nieces and nephews, who are growing up far too fast, became testament time-pieces to the rate at which one is aging. How I miss.. of my youth, more so than the moments of merriment, the very mere notion of possibility. A younger cousin told me today tt I should cease to worry too much for worry is futile and wasted on the yesteryears. As my little niece says, I am entitled to a priviledged place in the "big kids" segment. So to speak, the best years are not gone; they are yet to come. | | |
| Here I am , popping a beautifully wrapped in gold foil sinful delight after 3 consecutive lindt dark chocolates and feeling quite like Bridget Jones writing her diary - only electronically. These few days have been strange and quite so, quiet. My voice and cashmere's barks are the only noises resounding in the house.
It has been 3 days since my sis moved out to her new home and though she comes back almost every day for half-an-hour or so, I still miss her. I miss the little bickering sessions and fighting over the television and bathroom. Now that she isnt here, winning doesnt seem all that important at all. | | |
| It is no longer me, myself and I. I am a representation of what I have come to be and will be. Today, as I have come to learn; to play in the soil you have to be in the soil. I dont believe in second best. | | |
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