A Burst of Sentiments Induced By Memory of A Joyous Time
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It is always hard to see where sentiments lay. My life fluttering past, too fast to be seen and appreciated. To think, that once it was all so normal and mundane, had now become a thing to dream in detail. The sun, the voices, all so seem not so far away, yet gone, as it must. In my old age I think, of time disappeared and sweetened by regret. A thousand things I could have done will not help it then or now. A bitter taste in my mouth, as I regard and ponder the surreal element of it all. With vivid memory, I can recollect, sequences, clear and missed. Had it really happened? Who is to say that my experiences lies and invents? My helplessness is pitiful, so much that I hope it would be as it was, that a single remembrance can fill my heart with sorrow and regret. But is it true to myself that I wish to live on as before? I cannot admit it. Though with a wounded heart I recollect the joyous time, that even during it, I had acclaimed. Shimmering inside a moth eaten memory, among the piles of bookish notes, where is it that I look for? Whence its purpose and where about retain the mystery?
May the world be so cruel that it makes and manipulates, while I cry my heart out to the fate that condemns. Tender feelings and humanity, vulnerable and venerable, facts I have never appreciated until now. Passions and faults, the same thing that proves my frailty, so abominable to my heart and mind, yet is always obsequious. How is it that I cannot forget? Where is the infamous human mindís selectiveness when I need it? Destiny ruling, no refutations, no arguments, in the fickle world it reigns.
To be hurt by true happiness long ago is such an embittered torture. The first cup of sorrow I had tasted, even before, healed and finally vanished, resurfaces one again. Change is such a vulgar thing that it distorts and destroys, never ever creates. All bliss of ignorance redundant, a subtle tone by it will change the world. The perspective of view altered, all childish security deluded, the seduction was great and the consequences awaits to be seen. From certainty to dastardly cynicalism, where is the light that I dream of and once lived under? To know what one once had and yet is now lost, there is never a more catastrophe.
Knowledge and discovery are but flattering terms, each more rough than the other. Experience and live they say, for the full measure of human passionís wine, never, like all word weavers then and hense after, mentioning the afteraffects. Under a pale moonlight that shines now, in sporadic bursts the threads appear, each seeming to lead to treasures with traps that best lay forgotten. So old now, bent and calloused, clumsy fingers, and a dotardís mind, I search for what should be forgiven and reside in the fantastical. My mind cannot, and neither can I. It was real, I cry, there really had been, there was me and the others who I can no longer see. All things worthy to remain in my mind: the patch of grass, the strip of ground, the windows which framed a glorious view; sounds, people, my friends and my life. Gone now, laying beneath that pile of undefined ignominy.
The conscious shape reality.