Whirlwind of days

Time is a joke. While I pass nights feeling sorry for myself, and days trying to forget the nights, and while those days seem to drag slowly in my pain, -on the map vision of this time- days run rapidly instead, in the same way as I exaggerated this image, like a whirlwind in the memory. But days accumulate without leaving a track of significant memories... what really happened yesterday to remember? No intent for variating activities eases the mind, no company is useful. In fact, I can't put my finger on anything good that a previous similar state like this has left to me. Nothing good seems to get out of it. Experience... please; improving friends and family ties... please, again (am not ungrateful at all, but my feeling asks for someone else). Improving myself, more than please!: it was not the point of being in love? It was not the objective of nature to mate, and the one of the spirit to be fulfilled? It is not that the virtues of the beloved becomes the immanent beauty of everything in the world? So the greatest their virtues, the hardest the way to live without its love? Well, that is the case with her and me.

Well, how good would it be to feel like achieving something out of a broken heart. The sad truth is I'm getting old, and tired of the state. I'm nothing in the dark; and I start to not understand the happiness of others, how it seems natural, and so common around. The grief will endure for long, so to keep friends by my side I started to shut up when they ask how I am, they already know me better than myself; I'll keep them by my side trying to not bore them, and apparently will blog to bore a few others; at least I might feel that I said something and have it out of my system. Who knows how many time that may help; if it is like the rest of things I do, very little time. I don't care for the negative sight of me that this might create in others, or in employers. I'm sick of absence, and every minute is long, very long, as the hours seems to drag, no matter what I do, but the days fly when I try to remember something nice; it is just that everything is uninteresting and hurting, inside sorrow. Everything except for the one perfect person she is. This is the greatest tragedy possible, as it has happened before, love without the beloved. And I'm not intelligent enough to live with my feelings about her without her help or presence. How resemblant to death.

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

e.e. cummings, poem named after the first line.