by Christina Rossetti
Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you planned:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.
Stolen!
NANCY. My turn. How many times have you been in love?
HENRY. Real times?
NANCY. You’ve faked being in love?
HENRY. No, but “real” can be a very murky thing for people when it comes to love. There’s high school love, which, when people are going through it, they think it’s real, but then you look back and all it is, is just … puberty juice. Then you got your basic college-love illusion, where feelings are blown way out of proportion by the fact that you can have sex somewhere other than a car.
NANCY. Some people experience real love at that age.
HENRY. At that age people are in love with the idea that they’re in love. They like how it makes them feel grown up. Then they’re crumbled when it ends because they realize it wasn’t a real adult love. (Beat) I’m gonna say that real adult love happens when two people who have been completely devastated by either of these delusions try to make a go of something new. When two formerly heartbroken folks make a choice to pursue new feelings for new people armed with the knowledge of how much it could waste them. That’s love. Knowing the risk. Knowing it could blow up and wreck you. But still diving in.
NANCY. Henry, you’re avoiding the answer.
HENRY. What?
NANCY. How many real adult times have you been in love?
HENRY. Oh. Zero.
NANCY. That’s depressing. Drink.
..with a smile.
Tonight I did something different and went back in time to actually read a poem I wrote. I never do this. Whenever I write a letter or poem, I wish it away to whoever I wrote it for; there’s always someone behind the writeup, whether it’s a friend, a love interest or to myself. You can check it out at: http://netcriminal.livejournal.com/57010.html.
I’m shocked. Maybe you’ll never understand the feeling of being born tomorrow when you lived yesterday too much; I’m awoken.
Reading back in time got me contemplating that I used to be a genius where now I only possess the blunt honesty having stripped off all the poetic sugarcoating. It makes me happy that I documented every experience and how it felt in a public web log. I can literally read myself growing up; all the stumbles and peaks and crashes. In a grand conclusion about myself I could honestly say I’ve lost a lot of the compassion I had for things, nevertheless, there was no major change but dozens of tweaks for the better and to balance out things.. for the worse too.
It had me reminisce how much I was in love with someone. It reminded me of certain scars of the past that shaped how I now cope with the present. At some point, I actually felt as if I was reading through another person’s writings, partly because I never read my writes, but it showed me my own evolution. It made me happy; it made me smile that I’m living the future I wrote about myself in the past. I remained strong, firm to ideals and I never lost sight of the direction a prepubescent boy carved the path for.
I didn’t turn out so bad after all, I’m living committed to the best things in life I knew all along.
Stay in love and never ever stop writing.
Yesterday I made the stories to tell you all today.
Today I got diagnosed for stepping out of my mind.
Tomorrow’s too late, the crazy was always part of me.
Don’t let me out of my world. I don’t tell you what you can’t smoke– tobacco, weed or your own mother. I don’t tell you what you can’t drink– water, alcohol or loneliness. I don’t tell you what you can take in– diet pills, heroine or reality. Don’t tell me I’m wrong, I’m always right. Don’t tell me what I may do, because I always can. Don’t tell me I’m out of bounds, I drew the borderline myself. Don’t tell me I’m not myself, the alcohol just kicked in.
The alcohol just kicked in.
Never let me awake, I’m happier dreaming. Oh, if I’m awake, stop me from dreaming. I’m alive this way.
Good thing there’s no cure for insanity, the medicine might kill me.
I just woke up to the music of the late Edith Piaf.
We’re talking about two partly broken hearts and getting high.
Every word said is just poetry in the making.
Can we cut all this _bullshit_ and focus on falling in love?
