Aside from being a wonderful poem about the passage of time from the Victorian era, it is a feeling that envelops me now. I am not depressed but there is this vast absence of passion for almost everything. There are few people I speak with anymore and even fewer who break through the crumbling facade I strive vainly to maintain. My fear is if it goes away that there really will be nothing left.
I think it is my heart. My heart is in an emotional coma. It beat too fast for one man and now there is little to sustain it. It is not broken. I cannot break. I think it suffered from this serious beating and now it lays in meek repose wondering if it should fade and cease or take a rest between beatings. Like a drum a heart is best when it is allowed to express it’s beat.
I am where I am for a reason. I just need to figure out why.