8. You’ll Never Know What I Won’t Share…-s.r.

When I cry, the days just seem to get longer and more drawn out. When all I want to do is sleep and stay asleep, I just can’t seem to become tired enough to reach my comfortable slumber. There are days when the dead, cowardly feelings I have silence their own slumber and awaken the catastrophe that I conceal from myself.

Sadness, depression, loss, or whatever you want to call it, I know people feel it everyday. Whether it be about a loss of a family member, a bad grade, a lover whose gone away, a bad haircut or what not.

What I am talking of is the idea of having feelings. No one can understand you no matter how close you are to your most understanding family, friend or lover. It’s just something they cannot feel or begin to imagine to feel. It’s your thoughts mixed with your feelings mixed in with your doubts, ideas, truths, lies, love and hate that make it your own feeling. No two people may feel the same sadness, how can anyone say so?

People may subject your feelings or others feelings in categories of big, comprehensive chucks like sadness, happiness, confusion, hate and love, but I feel like these feelings you and only you can feel. Know one on this planet knows what your love feels like when it’s in your heart, or what your sadness can feel like aching in a dull drone at the pit of your stomach, or the anxious anger at seeing your love walk past you on the street.

To try to talk to someone and tell them how much you adore and love them for being who they are, they simply cannot fully comprehend, but merely relate really well and have a sort-of understanding. For the truth and sincerity in your own statement is yours to judge and to gauge.

Life is mysterious is providing scenes and sights to think upon and providing time to render our thoughts to establish a certain utopia of what we want our lives to be like.

I was perusing the shelves at Borders today around 6pm. My intentions were to buy four albums that I carefully chose half an hour earlier. My newly restored computer, you see, has no existing memory of my itunes library. Two and a half years of personal growth, history, love and loss gone never to be seen in that order, in that shuffle ever again.

Loss is a feeling I, ironically, dwell and think upon quite regularly. It’s been the most constant thing in my life, next to the volumes of Austen’s lovely novels, Emerson dependable essays and Theroux’s travels to old Patagonia.

Loss of a person, is the loss of yourself, which can be deemed as never having been yourself, or not ever knowing who yourself really was. I hope this makes some sense to those outside my own brain. 🙂

Why do I read nihilist Nietzche when I disagree with him so? Why do I dwell in Longbourne, when my heart craves to be in Pemberley? Why do I read poetry of loss and longing of two souls who have parted when true love has never existed in my own life? How can I ever repeat the emotional words of Hafez or Rumi when my own soul has not reached spiritual nirvana or met with the height of religious fervor I crave to attain? Why am I so broken and so pieced up? Loss is something I can’t seem to find, something that is triggered in the midst of sanity and happiness. I don’t know what it is I have lost. I just have the feeling of it. You cannot know what it means to feel my loss, it is mine to feel and yours to relate to.

To whomever may read this, life is a pursuit and I believed this wholeheartedly. I believed if i loved hard enough, spoke well enough, tried to please, tried to be the best person, studied and improved myself and my brain and became the most loving friend, sister, daughter, then my Secret would stay. My Secret didn’t want me in the end. My determination and hard work ethic to try to hold on to what was slipping out of my grip so rapidly, was futile, it was fucking futile. The more I tried, the more I killed. I couldn’t understand the reaction, couldn’t understand the reasoning, couldn’t understand what I was thinking. Why was I so easily fooled? Why was I so easily influenced when all my life I had been running, avoiding and refusing love from people whom I knew would undoubtedly use and excuse me?

Life is a lesson and we must learn, I heard someone say once.

It’s better to experience heartbreak than to never feel love at all, I heard another say.

If you lived through it, then you’ve come out stronger, I heard him say.

Now you really know what you want, I heard her say.

I heard someone else say that it (whatever you want it to be, love, loss or heartache)  is like a broken mirror and that sometimes it’s just easier to leave it broken and walk away then try to hurt yourself trying to fix it.

I told myself that Romantic Poetry was a farce and that true love, even  in it’s purest form does not and simply cannot not exist in my time. Lord Byron was my once lover, a constant companion under my pillow and I dismissed his poetry so easily when I got bruised. I dismissed the idea that maybe one day my own Mr. Darcy would appear, I renounced my own idealism of youthful and pure love as simple and stupid naivete, my Siddartha-like thirst for meaning and knowledge I deemed too unrealistic and came down from the fluffy white cloud of dreams and high thought that one day I could change the world.I return, abashed, yet I pick up my Byron book, I flip through the marked pages of essays by Emerson, I sit and I read, read, read. I read for the lost time, I read for the happiness it once brought me, I read for the idealism I miss so much, I read to gain the self I once proclaimed unstoppable and untouchable. I am travelling through a long narrow cave, I can see the light, yet I am so scathed and pining for fresh air that I must rest here in the middle of coming out and rest and I shall read.

Lord Byron’s Remind Me Not, Remind Me Not

Remind me not, remind me not,
Of those beloved, those vanish’d hours,
When all my soul was given to thee;
Hours that may never be forgot,
Till Time unnerves our vital powers,
And thou and I shall cease to be.

Can I forget—canst thou forget,
When playing with thy golden hair,
How quick thy fluttering heart did move?
Oh! by my soul, I see thee yet,
With eyes so languid, breast so fair,
And lips, though silent, breathing love.

When thus reclining on my breast,
Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet,
As half reproach’d yet rais’d desire,
And still we near and nearer prest,
And still our glowing lips would meet,
As if in kisses to expire.

And then those pensive eyes would close,
And bid their lids each other seek,
Veiling the azure orbs below;
While their long lashes’ darken’d gloss
Seem’d stealing o’er thy brilliant cheek,
Like raven’s plumage smooth’d on snow.

I dreamt last night our love return’d,
And, sooth to say, that very dream
Was sweeter in its phantasy,
Than if for other hearts I burn’d,
For eyes that ne’er like thine could beam
In Rapture’s wild reality.

Then tell me not, remind me not,
Of hours which, though for ever gone,
Can still a pleasing dream restore,
Till Thou and I shall be forgot,
And senseless, as the mouldering stone
Which tells that we shall be no more.


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