Of being perhaps a bit broken
I think it might be better for me to avoid everyone I care about for a while. I think volunteering as a mercenary might be a good thing for a few weeks. This birthday is killing me. I don’t even want to turn it funny because it is not. Not even a little bit. I took quite a few bites out of Boaz today,who to his credit and his future wife’s great benefit, not only took it but seemed to be left standing. I was vicious, vitriolic and frankly, a rampant bitch.
I am so incredibly angry I feel like ripping muscles from tendons and flinging it to the acid jowled beasts that currently resemble my mental state. I would very much like to devour any joy, any light or goodness but I know before I even taste it the coals on my tongue will reduce it to bitter ash. Which is my just deserts and please don’t tell me it isn’t. You have no idea what I’ve done. And, HA!, to how many people.
All I’ve managed to since I was 17 is break my world. Only in the past 6 or so months have I been anything but a sizzling patch of nuclear waste. Now I am turning 30 and the thought of my wasted life is kinda hard to swallow. I know that I am washed by the blood of Lamb but the memories are not as merciful. And I am surrounded by these perfect, wonderful people who have no idea and if they were ever to find out would be lost to me. So I don’t really have any right to hope for love. And it explains why I am so careless with it once I am offered it.
Wow. I am so not ok right now. I will undoubtedly bounce back from this but for right now I am drowning in sorrow.
Matthew Arnold: Dover Beach
The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand;
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the A gaean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
Recent Entries
- Of life recently of discovering a new (for me) poet
- Of Joni Mitchell
- Of working and snooping
- Of the new year and Dirt Music
- Of the guilty pleasure of watching The Bachelor
- Of marrying Twitter, Feedly and Google Wave
- Of teeth grinding frustration and the sheer awesome that is Google Wave
- Of stumbling down memory lane or how memory shapes personality
- Of beautiful girls
- Of total geekness
