“If we listen to the bad behavior, we have a chance to meet / encounter our fears, our disappointments, our prejudices, and the things we haven’t thought through before.”  — Jane Deeth

It hurts to see you laying there in a cold and sterile space

Helpless in being able to reach you  

For even in close proximity, I always felt you far away  

You’d get angry and unreasonable

For reasons I could never understand

And rather than try to reconcile my ideal world with reality

It was easier to stonewall you from my thoughts  

To face the departure of a loved one I fail to understand

Whose dark and foreboding moods I refused to enter

Coz it defied the happy endings of my Disney scripted world

I try not to look at the familiar family photos

Projected on the funeral chapel wall

For reasons I cannot explain

They produce dissonance to happy feelings

Like facial features inside a Picasso frame

Their random order, or something

Are interruptions to the memories

I seek to knit together but in futility can’t…

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“Loneliness is not found by having no one to touch, but instead in letting yourself be touched…” — www.ricksreviewz.wordpress.com

“Louis Moore was used to a quiet life. Being a quiet man, he endured it better than most men would. Having a large world of his own in his own head and heart, he tolerated confinement to a small, still corner of the real world very patiently…

“I used rather to like Solitude—to fancy her a somewhat quiet and serious, yet fair nymph; an Oread, descending to me from lone mountain-passes, something of the blue mist of hills in her array and of their chill breeze in her breath, but much also of their solemn beauty in her mien. I once could court her serenely, and imagine my heart easier when I held her to it—all mute, but majestic.

“Since that day I called Shirley to me in the schoolroom, and she came and sat so near my side; since she opened the trouble of her mind to me, asked my protection, appealed to my strength—since that hour I abhor Solitude. Cold abstraction, fleshless skeleton, daughter, mother, and mate of Death!

“It is pleasant to write about what is near and dear as the core of my heart. None can deprive me of this little book, and through this pencil I can say to it what I will—say what I dare utter to nothing living—say what I dare not think aloud.

“I know this is the talk of a dreamer—of a rapt, romantic lunatic. I do dream. I will dream now and then; and if she has inspired romance into my prosaic composition, how can I help it?

“What a child she is sometimes! What an unsophisticated, untaught thing! I see her now looking up into my face, and entreating me to prevent them from smothering her, and to be sure and give her a strong narcotic. I see her confessing that she was not so self-sufficing, so independent of sympathy, as people thought. I see the secret tear drop quietly from her eyelash. She said I thought her childish, and I did. She imagined I despised her. Despised her! It was unutterably sweet to feel myself at once near her and above her—to be conscious of a natural right and power to sustain her, as a husband should sustain his wife.

“I worship her perfections; but it is her faults, or at least her foibles, that bring her near to me, that nestle her to my heart, that fold her about with my love, and that for a most selfish but deeply-natural reason…”  — “Shirley” by Charlotte Bronte