I am struggling

with what to write. I cannot seem to find the words at this present moment. But something must be written. My insides need to speak. So I choose another's words. Hartley Coleridge has lent me some. I think they are fitting. They do not voice the struggle, only the perfect state of the heart. The very place we all wish to reach. The place which so often seems so far removed from our grasp.


Is love a fancy, or a feeling? No.
It is immortal as immaculate Truth,
'Tis not a blossom shed as soon as youth,
Drops from the stem of life--for it will grow,
In barren regions, where no waters flow,
Nor rays of promise cheats the pensive gloom.
A darkling fire, faint hovering o'er a tomb,
That but itself and darkness nought doth show,
It is my love's being yet it cannot die,
Nor will it change, though all be changed beside;
Though fairest beauty be no longer fair,
Though vows be false, and faith itself deny,
Though sharp enjoyment be a suicide,
And hope a spectre in a ruin bare.


It does not speak of the journey. It seeks only to express the character of love when observed in singular stillness. Aside from all else, from the workings and influence of this world; how it stands in perfection. Untainted and unmoved; unchanging.

It is expressed here, better than I could have achieved by my own means. Yet there is still so much to say on the matter of the journey. Perhaps that is best left unspoken of for now. From a human heart, perfect love in motion may often lose its perfection. And cease to exist. Or else the world intervenes.

Pay no mind to my thoughts. That is all they are. Stemming from the moment. Poetry, of little or no sense whatsoever, and perhaps even less truth. I don't know. Words will come and I will write. Pay no mind, for they may mean very little.