Alone

Alone

From childhood’s hour I have not been As others were—I have not seen As others saw—I could not bring My passions from a common spring— From the same source I have not taken My sorrow—I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone— And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone— Then—in my childhood—in the dawn Of a most stormy life—was drawn From ev’ry depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still— From the torrent, or the fountain— From the red cliff of the mountain— From the sun that ’round me roll’d In its autumn tint of gold— From the lightning in the sky As it pass’d me flying by— From the thunder, and the storm— And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view—

Edgar Allan Poe

“The Dead Poets were dedicated to sucking the marrow out of life. That’s a phrase from Thoreau that we’d invoke at the beginning of each meeting. You see, we’d gather at the old Indian cave and take turns reading from Thoreau, Whitman, Shelley — the biggies. Even some of our own verse. And in the enchantment of the moment, we’d let poetry work its magic.”

Quicker

Do you sometimes wonder what your life would be like without people?

I often think it would be better.

I'm not talking about being the only human on the planet because that would be boring.

I am talking about solitude so deep and heavy that you don't allow people to come closer, when you live just next to them.

Imagine a life where you do whatever you want whenever you want without justifying yourself to others. When the words you say don't reach your heart, when your eyes show nothing but carelessness so lightly resting on your forehead.

There would be no expectations, no attachments, no liking. So that, you can easily walk away whenever you want.

Imagine a life when you have only yourself as company.

There's no way I can live on this earth without turning my heart into stone.

Please don't let me hide anymore, even though I want it so badly.

You probably call me a lunatic, a contradiction, a paradox.

Living without people would be easier, but the truth is that's not at all what I want. In fact, I want the exact opposite. I crave meaningful connections with people. Not jibber jabber. Words have a meaning. Words have power. Don't just spit them out.

The thing is, most people don't care whom they speak to, they speak only to fill the silence with speaking. It pains me a lot because it almost always means that I was just a random person amongst the crowd.

There's no point in remembering the conversation that we had, no point in getting attached to you, no point in getting attached to the place I wished to call home. The words that you toss so easily, they will float away from us, so that we could forget quicker.

It's because I was hurt so deeply, I'm ashamed to admit it even to myself. How can I say it out loud without acknowledging the fissures in my flesh, without acknowledging the slimy blood covering my hands.

We are sealed in our own little melancholy atmospheres, like planets, and revolving around the sun, our common but distant desire.

-- Jack Kerouac, Jack Kerouac and Allan Ginsberg: The Letters

The sun loved the moon so much, he died every night to let her breathe...