Ragged Post
penncee
Posts: 16
Can you meet what you fear half way,
Fear,
I can’t even name what you are,
Really.
A voice in the distance,
No.
A voice in the present, tense,
Now,
Back,
Then.
Now, then,
No,
Just there.
Hold me tight,
You never did, thank God.
That was just a memory that didn’t happen.
It’s not,
Now.
What is it I fear?
That tight hug, I might never get?
I will never escape.
That will never let me go.
Where would I want
To go?
Why would I want to go?
Because I could,
Knowing,
There was somewhere to return.
What I fear is
That the only place I would want to return to isn’t there
Or
Somewhere
I wouldn’t want
To be.
Why go?
Why leave?
Fear,
I can’t even name what you are,
Really.
A voice in the distance,
No.
A voice in the present, tense,
Now,
Back,
Then.
Now, then,
No,
Just there.
Hold me tight,
You never did, thank God.
That was just a memory that didn’t happen.
It’s not,
Now.
What is it I fear?
That tight hug, I might never get?
I will never escape.
That will never let me go.
Where would I want
To go?
Why would I want to go?
Because I could,
Knowing,
There was somewhere to return.
What I fear is
That the only place I would want to return to isn’t there
Or
Somewhere
I wouldn’t want
To be.
Why go?
Why leave?
I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing......Only I will remain—Dune, George Herbert
In every cloud, in every tree—filling the air at night, and caught by glimpses in every object by day—I am surrounded with her image! The most ordinary faces of men and women—my own features—mock me with a resemblance. The entire world is a dreadful collection of memoranda that she did exist, and that I have lost her!—Wuthering Heights, Emily Bronte
In every cloud, in every tree—filling the air at night, and caught by glimpses in every object by day—I am surrounded with her image! The most ordinary faces of men and women—my own features—mock me with a resemblance. The entire world is a dreadful collection of memoranda that she did exist, and that I have lost her!—Wuthering Heights, Emily Bronte
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