Soneto V

Escrito está en mi alma vuestro gesto
y cuanto yo escribir de vos deseo:
vos sola lo escribistes; yo lo leo
tan solo que aun de vos me guardo en esto.

En esto estoy y estaré siempre puesto,
que aunque no cabe en mí cuanto en vos veo,
de tanto bien lo que no entiendo creo,
tomando ya la fe por presupuesto.

Yo no nací sino para quereros;
mi alma os ha cortado a su medida;
por hábito del alma misma os quiero;

cuanto tengo confieso yo deberos;
por vos nací, por vos tengo la vida,
por vos he de morir, y por vos muero.

Garcilaso de la Vega, Spain 1503-1536

"Not all those who wander are lost.”  

J. R. R. Tolkien

The truth is that our finest moments are most likely to occur when we are feeling deeply uncomfortable, unhappy, or unfulfilled. For it is only in such moments, propelled by our discomfort, that we are likely to step out of our ruts and start searching for different ways or truer answers.

M. Scott Peck

The most I can do for my friend is simply to be his friend. I have no wealth to bestow on him. If he knows that I am happy in loving him, he will want no other reward. Is not friendship divine in this?

Henry David Thoreau

The most important things are the hardest things to say. 

they are the things you get ashamed of , because words diminish them - words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out...

the most important things lie too close to whereever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away.

and you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it.

that's the worst...

when the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear.

From Stephen King's 'The Body'

october monsoon

The air heavy with moisture, stands still in its place,

while i try to speak, it stands in the way,

last night something went missing,

the air is now toying with the idea of it,

what will happen to the shapeless hole that is left behind,

will it get filled with the water that rains later?

When we two are parted

When we two are parted

In silence and tears,

Half broken-hearted,

To sever for years,

Pale grew thy cheek and cold,

Colder thy kiss;

Truly that hour foretold

Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning

Sank chill on my brow

It felt like the warning

Of what I feel now.

Thy vows are all broken,

And light is thy fame:

I hear thy name spoken,

And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,

A knell to mine ear;

A shudder comes o'er me

Why wert thou so dear?

They know not I knew thee,

Who knew thee too well:

Long, long shall I rue thee

Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met

In silence I grieve

That thy heart could forget,

Thy spirit deceive.

If I should meet thee

After long years,

How should I greet thee?

With silence and tears

Lord Byron

having less to say, i know now
is not a bad thing,
for it means having less going on in the mind.

After Years of Listening, A Stone Comes to Life

After years of listening, a stone comes to life,
and the candle in the tiny grass;
and the night, like a wife, comes home;
a feather, in this touch of wind, flies back
to the lost bird, and everything I do not know
begins to sway at once.

I love these nights of irresistible somnambulance!
These nights when the wind blows its lullabye
to each lonely wing; I love this old body I walk in,
I love this dependable sage, this desert scent
I sink into when I rest; and suddenly I know
I will no longer apologize for loving you.

I whispered your name and the wind whinnied back.
All the horses of heaven are in the pasture tonight.

--- James Tipton

"Fall not in love, therefore; it will stick to your face."

National Lampoon

 "The folly of mistaking a paradox for a discovery, a metaphor for a proof, a torrent of verbiage for a spring of capital truths, and oneself for an oracle, is inborn in us."

Paul Valery

Are all things that start meant to end ? isn't there something that transcends, this mortal cycle of birth and death? are those things meant to be hidden forever, in forgotten, musty recesses of time? not meant to be shared for the fear of unearthing something, long since buried.

What happens to those moments and feelings, that are too scared to be known? do they go to the grave with us then? 

or is there some unknown force, 

that passes them on to the people they were meant for

without the medium of words?