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I might be pretty close to a breakdown of some sort, I think. All I have to do to remind myself of this is to look around me and see all the beautiful things in my life; my friends, the place I live, pictures on my computer of the one who loves me, and his voice. These things, all these things entrusted to me by some unseen force, all taunt me and whirl around me as if they will leave if I fail to keep up with them. I can't let them get away. Thus, I rush, and I forget, and I sometimes hurt things, I think, in my rush to keep up with the beauty that threatens to leave me behind. I forget what it means to me to have these things, and can only recall that I don't want to lose them.
My lover's voice; His Word; Beauty in the faces of my friends and the world--All of it I cannot hold onto forever. I forget that sometimes, in my rush to keep up. I forget that all things in life come and go as they please, without consent or consideration to those around them that have let themselves fall in love with their beauteous visages. Flowers bloom and wither and die. Babies are borne, grow old, and in their new gained wisdom loose their fair wrinkled hands to death as well. Even music, the soul that gives some of something to live for, will some day be lost. Such is the way of the world, and thus is my realization, but such a realization hurts me.
I can't do much but mourne for the loss of such things; in the graveyard, there are tiny headstones engraved with the small and delicate forms of baby lambs, and the children, the poor, dear things that have not known life beyond their first six or seven years rest beneath them. I can almost hear the cries and laughter that they had in life, however short it was--for all things have some type of emotion even if its only their first day in the world.
Wherefore this thought, wherefore this feeling for things I have never known, or have not had the pleasure of intimate knowledge of? What of this tiny voice that speaks within my head sometimes, warning me not to love, or even to admire when I know that I can't have what I am lusting for, even though I can't help but to notice and adore such beautiful things that encourage my lustings? Its as though I live in a place that wants me to break like so many others around me already have, so that I will no longer notice this immaculate portrait of the world that is, that lives and loves.
But then, other times, it just all goes away, and makes itself scarce, and thus my breaking point. The dissappearance of worldly visages makes me understand that I can't have this thing that I want, and that I won't have it even in death, because I will be in a different place. Might be in a different place. It depends upon how one would view such a thing as that.
With these comings and goings of prettily created things, and the realization that I cannot have them, and the voice that tells me that I should not love them, and the mourning of the loss of such things, I don't think I can last much longer. A breakdown is perhaps the only way to deal with this, though. Maybe. Maybe not. I don't know.