.

If I wrote about my anger ... no known number of pages could hold all that I wanted to say. If I wrote about my sadness ... grief would envelope my pen and desert my thoughts in order to escape eternal persecution of the soul. But if I wrote of my joys ... it would be but a small book in the enormous library of Life. So insignificant as to compare to the comings of a great many others. If life is full of both sadness and joys, surely my scales are momentarily tipped by unknown, yet unforeseen forces only to become apparant later ... but will it be too late?

If life is a mystery, then love must be its puzzle. Maybe I just haven't found the right formula yet. Maybe the antidote for the cries of pain and misery to my heart is yet to be found in the arms of another. Pain seeks out its own kind ... or does it?

The hand stretching out, beckoning me to take hold with both arms and full heart. No room for the mind ... sorry, have to leave you behind ... but now I am letting mind and mindset alike make the moves. "Is that so wise?" I ask myself. With the state that my love is in, with broken trust cut on glass pieces, blood flows freely from my heart. River of angst and pain desecrating all that was beheld and sacred by the soul. But she has been betrayed. No more second chances. No more long goodbye's. Just no more ...