Shoutbox

I, too, in pessimistic verse have wept
Over my first love, just like any man,
And, by yet one more tome, I could have, then,
Into the library of sad souls stepped.

Still, I give you a merry feast, today,
Of pages miscelleanous and new.
Where, fused in imagery, my pain will, too,
Like snowflakes on the water, fade away.

Transparent tears, then, into jokes re-mould,
Symbolic soap balloons, chased to and fro,
Carried adrift by the mad winds that grow
Stirred up by literary trends, ice-cold.

And, in their fleeing ephemerity,
Their walls transparent hardly hold, alack,
From the eternal void, a tiny speck,
Yet, claim a place under the sun, you see.

Most mild posthumous criticism, still
Don't pinch them with your needle's point, for then
My froth balloons, so iridescent, will
Turn, one by one, to heavy tears again.

Of course true love exists, we wouldn't be idealists without it. You can never search for it with a set of parameters though, it's ethereal. Instinct tells you everything you need to know about who you fall in love with. Seek as if unconscious, love as if alive. What do I look for? Nothing I can describe, just something I can feel.

"Our recollection of the past is not simply distorted by our faulty perception of events remembered but skewed by those forgotten. The memory is like orbiting twin stars, one visible, one dark, the trajectory of what's evident forever affected by the gravity of what's concealed."