08/20/11
Please forgive me--tonight--my dear friends, as I seem--somehow--to be on the bottom of a three-day sine wave of Fibromania, whose seeming crest has left me empty, in dreadful pain, and exhausted, somehow, having left me on a shore I hardly recognize, through the fog; I've managed to develope a case of 'Lupus face', which is a mockery of my own, and even when washing my hands, avoid the mirror.
Somewhere, I must have stashed several, "Dorean Grey" protraits of myself, that are frozen in perpetual youth, strength, and...happiness. I fully realize that time ( the Enemy ) inevitably works changes, and that long passages of time work a kind of evil magic on the mind, body,and soul wherein, occasionally, corruption overcomes that which would be changeless.
For, if given half a chance, I think that all of us would willingly drink again from that sublime fountain that might free us from adversity, illnesses, and the inevitability of age in which more and more of formerly taken-for-granted youth and beauty declines--not arithmetically--but in revealed surprises. Losses upon losses spring, unbidden to the scene, and to add to it Lupus/Fibromyalgia/Chronic Pain, and Chronic fatigue, seems all the more ugly, because it seems so unfair. And, certainly, undeserved. NO one deserves it. For even if it be genetic...still, NO one deserves it. EVER. And so, my dear, dear, friends, upon whom I have come to rely more and more, please allow me to close with an half-remembered passage of a poem by William Blake, from his "Age Of Innocence", to wit:
Every night, and every morn,
some to misery are born.
Every morn, and every night,
some are born to sweet delight.
Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.
It is not a matter of choosing wisely, or, too well, as it really dosen't involve choice at all. In the inevitably of 'Being', it becomes but a part of living, I suppose.
So to all my dear friends, may I wish you pain-free days, sound, and restorative nights, freedom from depression or despair, and always, much, much happiness. love, 'Zahc'
Please forgive me--tonight--my dear friends, as I seem--somehow--to be on the bottom of a three-day sine wave of Fibromania, whose seeming crest has left me empty, in dreadful pain, and exhausted, somehow, having left me on a shore I hardly recognize, through the fog; I've managed to develope a case of 'Lupus face', which is a mockery of my own, and even when washing my hands, avoid the mirror.
Somewhere, I must have stashed several, "Dorean Grey" protraits of myself, that are frozen in perpetual youth, strength, and...happiness. I fully realize that time ( the Enemy ) inevitably works changes, and that long passages of time work a kind of evil magic on the mind, body,and soul wherein, occasionally, corruption overcomes that which would be changeless.
For, if given half a chance, I think that all of us would willingly drink again from that sublime fountain that might free us from adversity, illnesses, and the inevitability of age in which more and more of formerly taken-for-granted youth and beauty declines--not arithmetically--but in revealed surprises. Losses upon losses spring, unbidden to the scene, and to add to it Lupus/Fibromyalgia/Chronic Pain, and Chronic fatigue, seems all the more ugly, because it seems so unfair. And, certainly, undeserved. NO one deserves it. For even if it be genetic...still, NO one deserves it. EVER. And so, my dear, dear, friends, upon whom I have come to rely more and more, please allow me to close with an half-remembered passage of a poem by William Blake, from his "Age Of Innocence", to wit:
Every night, and every morn,
some to misery are born.
Every morn, and every night,
some are born to sweet delight.
Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.
It is not a matter of choosing wisely, or, too well, as it really dosen't involve choice at all. In the inevitably of 'Being', it becomes but a part of living, I suppose.
So to all my dear friends, may I wish you pain-free days, sound, and restorative nights, freedom from depression or despair, and always, much, much happiness. love, 'Zahc'
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