I've found almost everything ever written about love to be true. Shakespeare said "Journeys end in lovers meeting." What an extraordinary thought. Personally, I have not experienced anything remotely close to that, but I am more than willing to believe Shakespeare had. I suppose I think about love more than anyone really should. I am constantly amazed by its sheer power to alter and define our lives. It was Shakespeare who also said "love is blind". Now that is something I know to be true. For some quite inexplicably, love fades; for others love is simply lost. But then of course love can also be found, even if just for the night. And then, there's another kind of love: the cruelest kind. The one that almost kills its victims. Its called unrequited love. Of that I am an expert. Most love stories are about people who fall in love with each other. But what about the rest of us? What about our stories, those of us who fall in love alone? We are the victims of the one sided affair. We are the cursed of the loved ones. We are the unloved ones, the walking wounded. The handicapped without the advantage of a great parking space! Yes, you are looking at one such individual. And I have willingly loved that man for over three miserable years! The absolute worst years of my life! The worst Christmas', the worst Birthday's, New Years Eve's brought in by tears and valium. These years that I have been in love have been the darkest days of my life. All because I've been cursed by being in love with a man who does not and will not love me back. Oh god, just the sight of him! Heart pounding! Throat thickening! Absolutely can't swallow! All the usual symptoms.

Fear

Fear cannot touch me

it can only taunt me

it cannot take me

just tell me where to go

 

I can either follow

or stay in my bed

I can hang on to the things I know

The dead stay dead

            They cannot Walk

The Shadows are darkness

          They cannot talk.

 

 

Freaks have a better vantage point from which to viwe the world... people who live outside of society are the ones who can see it work.   Pg. 136

 

Child Not Yet Born

What Fire burns the hear

from which did these agonies start?

 

our cobwebs strong from death to death

are too thin. Our lies the greatest sin.

I will hold you, child yet born,

and tell you not to forget but not to know

You will soon be dense with memory

and your memory dense with souls.

what fires burn the heart

from which God did the agonies start?

 

I hold you child not yet born,

yet I am not your God

Ask me not to stop the pain,

The lies I offer you need not gain

I cannot tell you now or why

I can only teach you

that this world call for you to cry.

P. 171-172

 

Passion

For passion, like crime, does not sit well with sure order and even course of everyday life. It welcomes every loosening of social fabric, every confusion and affliction visited upon the world, for passion sees in such disorder a vague hope of finding advantage for itself, for passion like deseases does not sit well with the sure and even course of every day life.                   -Death in Venice   p. 198

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match’d with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoy’d
Greatly, have suffer’d greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Thro’ scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour’d of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’
Gleams that untravell’d world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use!
As tho’ to breathe were life.

-Alfred Lord Tennyson, Ulysses (as quoted in the last Episode in Frasier)