Sir Walter Raleigh

LIFE

What is our life? A play of passion,
Our mirth the music of division,
Our mother's wombs the tiring-houses be,
Where we are dressed for this short comedy.
Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is,
That sits and marks still who doth act amiss.
Our graves that hide us from the setting sun
Are like drawn curtains when the play is done.
Thus march we, playing, to our latest rest,
Only we die in earnest, that's no jest.


I sorta bumped into this poem. A rather sad and depressed one. I guess it just matches what i've been feeling these few days. Its been kinda rough these few days. Sometimes its just more than i can take. But what else can i do but to face it head on? It was all my fault. I dare not say it wasn't mine. I couldn't. It was all ME. It is kinda hard, when you're in this misery, and you still have to keep a straight face. The pain inside is so unreal. No thousand needles poking my heart. No breathing difficulties. No nothing. It is almost like cancer. It strikes unknowingly. Slowly killing and tormenting. But not showing. This is what it is.

When you're in such a somber mood, you get to think about a lot of things you often seem to miss out. Things such as how real loneliness actually feels, how hard it is to force a smile, how slow i seem to walk sometimes, how beautiful a half crescent moon looks like in the middle of the night and how torturous it can be when you're stuck in a chirpy and happy chat with friends. Everything spells L-I-F-E. This is what life is. Just like what the poem states.. a short comedy.

Are you in one? I am.