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“Did I say she was beautiful? I was wrong. Beauty is too tame a notion; it evokes only faces in magazines. A lovely eloquence, a calming symmetry; none of that describes this woman’s face. So perhaps I should assume I cannot do it justice with words. Suffice it to say that it would break your heart to see her; and it would mend what was broken in the same moment; and you would be twice what you’d been before.” “Nothing else wounds us so deeply and irreparably. Nothing else robs us of hope so much as being unloved by the one we love.” “Any fool can be happy. It takes a man with real heart to make beauty out of the stuff that makes us weep.” ... “Wherever I go, I shall speak of you with love.”

- Clive Barker. 

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I never missed the God in her. To me, she was the essence of divinity.

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A Poem, For You, and Yours’.

“The desires of the heart are as crooked as corkscrews Not to be born is the best for man The second best is a formal order The dance's pattern, dance while you can. Dance, dance, for the figure is easy The tune is catching and will not stop Dance till the stars come down from the rafters Dance, dance, dance till you drop.” - W.H. Auden

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If you love her, let her go. If she returns, she is truly yours; if not, well then, she never was. Is it so wrong to keep hoping? I tell myself, keep this one; why did you cut off that one? Maybe the next one will fill the void. I’ll search, until I can search no more, but, is that fair? Is it fair to spark fires of the heart when they cannot do the same; they cannot replace the irreplaceable; one cannot set flame to ash in a pit that refuses to open for foreign tinder. I let her go, I believed -beyond all logic and reason and evidence of her words; she doesn’t go back- I would yet be the one. So, I let her go. And I’ll go on with hope. 

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Within me, a Sadness Stays Blooming

In English, we might say that we are sad, that "I am sad." What arises from this is a connotation of possession, wherein Sadness is not perceived as a mere fleeting feeling, but more a mode of being. The Sadness is the "I". It is something to escape from, a possessive beast, to slip through like a fish slips through the fisherman's hands in hopes if reaching the familiar waters of normalcy. It is perceived that we are one with The Sadness. However, in Irish, we say "ta bron orm", which, literally translated, is to say "there is a sadness on me". This separation seems insignificant, seems trivial. But one should remember that we are not our Sadness as much as we are not our Happiness. Nor are we our pain. Instead, these are visiting emotions, things to wipe off. Like dust on a jacket; the dust is no more a pert of the jacket than the Sadness we feel momentarily is a part of us. It is simply there. To dust yourself off, "éirí as an brón" - to take off the Sadness - is an actionable feat. The choice to wear the stain is ours. But when the stain reaches deeper than the jacket, deeper than skin, even, what parts of ourselves must we shed to lose ourselves from the Sadness on us?

"Hope is the physician of every misery", and oh how the physicians have been hard at work with me. Hope. One may hope all they want, one may beg for the ache to stop. However, hope alone is not enough. It was never enough. And, with misplaced or failed hope, come the inevitabilityof endless what ifs - one can lose themselves in the pits of 'what if'. And when the thoughts 'what ifs' pushes the clock beyond 'its too late', all we are left with is the hope fore Hope.

Perhaps I am so lucky to be cursed with the Irish Sadness, to be gifted with the deep sadness that has befallen my people since before, yet surely exacerbated by, the English came, they who stepped foot unto our Emeral Isle and shatteredso many. A deep sadness. While it is on us, Sadness, like the dirt of history and of our downtrodden roads of old, we Irish seem to be a drunken mix of both too prideful and too stubborn to slip off the tattered and stained sleeves of our Sadness. We wear it, silently, if need be, like a little cyan-blue button holding fast our over-worn jacket; like a patch attempting to hide the hole we wish to hide. We fester and brood in it, yet, we cherish it. We cherish the memories The Sadness brings, as if afraid our Happiness might too slip off should we remove our Sadness. With life comes pleasure, pain, joy, and scorn. Life, death. The weeds grow as too do the flowers. We choose, in a way, which to foster; we choose to wear the dirt. But some stains bring with it memories, memories that blossom. When I take off my jacket, when I attempt to take off my Sadness and bare myself, I cannot help but look to my heart only to see still a small stain of Sadness. I cannot help but think,

Ta bron orm.

#Life #Loss #Love #Hope #Sadness #Little Blue Button

[etempus]

“The desires of the heart are as crooked as corkscrews Not to be born is the best for man The second best is a formal order The dance's pattern, dance while you can. Dance, dance, for the figure is easy The tune is catching and will not stop Dance till the stars come down from the rafters Dance, dance, dance till you drop.” - W. H. Auden

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“Life is a flower of which love is the honey.” — Victor Hugo

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“Perfection, rather, is the ability to incorporate imperfection! There’s no other way to live: You either incorporate imperfection, or you fall into denial.” ~Richard Rohr

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“Commitment is doing the thing you said you were going to do long after the mood you said it in has left you.” - Darren Hardy

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"To admire ourselves as we are is to have no wish to change. And with those who don’t want to change, the soul is dead."

 William Barclay

There is something deeply wrong with any ideology that obsesses over political change, but dismisses personal change, in favor of personal affirmation.

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If I could do anything differently, first and foremost, I would have been honest. honest about my feelings, my frustrations. I would have opened up and shared the feelings of drift I felt. I would find a way to keep myself, to hold back the unjust anger that was kindled by my self-imposed and disillusioned feelings of inadequacy. I would say "I'm Sorry", and I would mean it. Most importantly, I wouldn't have given up.

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Loving You

I saw her the other day. Her arms around another man, her eyes when met with mine-were slow in their recognition. I wonder if she remembers what I once told her. I will love you forever. He had smiled at me sadly before giving his reply. But I am so afraid you may one day stop.

Now all these years later, I am the one who is afraid. Because I love her, I still do. I haven’t stopped. I don’t think I can. I don’t think I ever will.

-Lang Leav

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Most have made promises they can’t keep; but, have you ever made a promise you can’t break?

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When the very way, the simple way, with wich you lead your life is considered by the established cast as nothing more than criminal vile, for the mere desire to lead life without governance. When you are cast aside, by the ever presumptuous and ever so virtuous ruling cast, as vermin filth. Where then do you turn but to the shades of Grey which the regulars call black all the same? I was born under ground, so shall I reign Supreme. Have your fickle symbols masking your depressive nature of solitude. I am happy alone, the shadow give me cover to comfortably do my business. I am happy in the black. So be it be it.

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I gave it all up, once. And for what? I threw away a budding empire. And for who? I burned down decades of work. And for why?

I did it for love.

And, in the end, what did I receive but empty solice of tomorrow promised by hands my own?

Scars. I received painful scars of yesterday that keep me from the mistakes of tomorrow.

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In search of of your own way, don't lose sight of those who made the searches worthwhile.

In trying to cast my own way, I have, and am still willing, to cut any and all who dare oppose my vision.

I gave my way for another, but, never again; ne'er again shall I give up; ne'er again will I sacrifice; ne'er again will I falter in my vision.

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