Thursday, November 16, 2006

Poetry Thursday

And I cannot thing of a better poem than this one. Check out


by Emily Bronte:

The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me
And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighted with snow.
And the storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me;
I will not, cannot go.

We've got no snow here yet, and it is, in fact in the high 50's (unheard of for a week before Thanksgiving). To me, this poem is not really about the weather. This poem is about me. (But then again, isn't everything?)

It's about me & this stupid sickness that I have to battle all the time:Could there be any better word than "tyrant" for this thing that keeps stealing & controlling my life?

My whole self is "weighted" down with something, and it doesn't really matter how bad things get, I'm stuck, spellbound. A "storm is fast descending," in the form of yet another family fight or, alternatively, a 6-year-old's birthday party? Don't think that changes things. Clouds are piling up; clouds of anger or fear or defeat? The spell doesn't care. Winds are whipping around me - people's voices filled with doubt, my own voice just still not understanding WHY - it doesn't matter.

I will not, cannot go.

It isn't a choice. There's nothing I can say to reverse the spell, nothing I have done that's been able to break it; and, perhaps most importantly right now, nothing I could have done to prevent it.

Will not, cannot: It's just that simple and just that complicated.

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