Most of the time I think about how I’ve actually let go one of the most important things in my life, I try to eradicate this dirge of an absence by reading felicitous poetry, felicitous on an iniquitous sense that it not only soothes my bitterness, but also enlightens me to a nirvana of nothingness.
She brought me a euphoric state of analeptic bliss, far beyond an ancient flawless in romance.
Our discourse, that ended the relationship, brought me to a succumbing state of need, a famished wanting for something that was always there, but I always ignored.
There are occasions I try to regret, and I think that she feels almost the same, and sometimes I feel I should have done more than what I have done. And sometimes I feel that I should have given more than what was expected.
Perhaps, if I was the guy I was today, 3 years ago, I would have been the greatest thing that she would ever come across.
But like a boat lost at sea, threading aimlessly in the boundless of every direction, rising and falling in the howling, mountainous waves, so sits I, wandering in the expandable infinities of both dream and existence.
It’s the poet’s task, my friend, to note his dreams and comprehend. Mankind’s most true delusion seems to be revealed to him in dreams: All poesy and versification, is merely dream interpretation.
Her love is like a beacon, lighting up the future but reflected also on the past in the guise of fond memories. But all is left sovereign is now a mere proletariat in those fond memories, sharp as daggers, piercing deeper than the multitudes of heartache.
Sometimes I wonder how joyous it would be for her return, how I will think each day just each day, of how I can put a smile on that face of hers, that beautiful, beautiful smile of hers.
The impeachment of the epitome of all beauty.
But still, this heartache ravages me like the unspoken horrors of all tragedy.
heh, I finally feel like a heartbroken teenager.
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