So Hard to Breathe

I got used to the brightness, when you were in my life. And now you're gone; the darkness has settled over me, like a suffocating blanket. While everyone else looks up to see what has obscured the light, I look down, for I know, and I pull myself into a hidden corner and cry myself into oblivion.

I know that moments like these are once in a lifetime, that they soon pass, and that all will be filled with light again, but there is a problem, you see; I can't move forward, I can't see the hope yet. I know it's darkest before the dawn, but those are the moments it's hardest to live through. I cannot wait until it has all passed, when I can breathe again, when my heart doesn't clench with agony and hatred, and disappointment every time I see you. I miss the times when I used to breathe easy, when I wouldn't wake in the early hours of the morning, and be unable to fall back asleep because all I could do was think about you.

...I miss the times when you were a comforting thought.

So we're come to this. That's ok. I understand. I don't want you back in my life, but I want you gone completely. I want the thoughts to stop, the longings to stop, the ugly feelings to stop. I need to stop dying a little every time I see you.

Please. Stop haunting me. I need to move on.

Dreamscape

One day, I shall own a house by a lake, in a picturesque country, with mountains reflected in the calm surface of the water. And every day, as the sun rises, and as the sun sets, I shall set out in my little row boat, and glide though the ripples of the water, watching as the birds skim its surface, set against the background of the sky's passionate canvas.

While the sky turns an assortment of vivid colours, I shall lie back in my tiny boat, and stare, losing myself in the inconstant hues, letting the boat drift where it may. I shall be filled with such peace that unhappiness may never roost in my heart again. The boughs of the pine trees shall sigh my contentment in the breeze, and the birds shall soar with the freedom I enjoy.

I shall have my camera with me, so that I might capture these fleeting moments, and reflect upon them when the sun has said "Goodnight" to the world. Or perhaps my easel and paintbrush, to sit upon the banks of the lake and with rapid, then languid brushstrokes, encapsulate the dreamscape before me.

When the days turn cold I shall sit in my house beside the blazing fire, and enjoy the tales preserved in the pages of ancient books. The land will turn white, and its true majesty shall reveal itself, so that I might feel blessed to live in such a place.

So while I might live alone, as I believe I am doomed to do, I shall be content; there is a certain magic in feeling lonely and content at the same time. But I shall sit on my porch, beneath the dark sky, illuminated by the billions of stars which the city lights dim, and think to myself, that I have indeed found that legendary pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, after surviving the hard, arduous and ugly road which led to it.

For the Umpteenth Time

Don't you see it's now or never?

A Stranger Dream

Could it be that we are living in a dream within a dream?
Could it be that our memories are all false, that our experiences are all imaginary?

It's much too difficult to believe that everything is real. It's nearly impossible to believe that we could break promises as easily as we would snap a twig.  And yet, we have. What we perceive as reality shows that we have reached the point of no return, passed it, and looking back, wonder where it was that we didn't even noticed that we'd crossed the line until we crossed it.

Now all the songs are hymns to remind us of what could have been, of what is, and of what might be. You know there must be something wrong with reality when a pop artist is singing your feelings to the world, with a tune you don't even like, but recognise as your own. It's not even the violins which play your theme, its the driving beat of the bass, like your heartbeat, resonating through car's stereo's and the speakers of nightclubs, for all the world to hear. How could something so vulgar be revealing your very soul, and make you feel so vulnerable?

Maybe that means that our reality is a dream after all. Maybe we are dreaming all that could go wrong with our lives, creating this nightmarish world. Maybe death is not death, but an awakening, where we all awake from this life, to find that we were all lucid dreaming this same strange dream. Perhaps our reality is somewhere else; some alternate universe, where in fact, there is no unhappiness, or vulnerability, or struggle. Perhaps we shall wake from this, to find that all the rest are still stuck in their sleeping state, the nightmares flickering behind their closed eyelids, rapidly, agonisingly.

And when we wake, we remember all that could have gone wrong, so we live the best we can, and ensure it doesn't happen. But then, we fall asleep again, and fall back into this false reality which we perceive as real. And all is forgotten to us of our true reality, where all is good. That's why when we fall asleep in that dream, we dream a stranger dream. For what is life but a dream within a dream?

The New Faith

Something within me has died; a light has gone out. The season of death has arrived, and all is crumbled and withered and faded. I am but another facet of that cycle, and am not immune to its influences. This is a time of learning about all the hidden truths of life.

I learnt that the greatest death of all is that of Faith. Love was the sacred religion, it had been there to warm us during the coldest nights, and light the way during the darkest days. We all believed in it, the way we believed that the sky was blue; lies upon lies upon lies. My faith in Love has since died.

I do not believe anymore that it is as powerful and as all healing a force as we were led to believe. Sadness has become more than an icon of our generation, more than a way of life; it has become the new religion. And I am yet another faithful follower.

I am however, stuck in this limbo for the moment. I am as yet unsure of whether I am embracing the light, or releasing it; I don't know whether I will be better for it, or worse.

The Folly of Desperation

I have to ask myself who I want to be, for it seems that happiness eludes me wherever I turn. Just when I am on the brink of attaining something beautiful, it realises who I am, and shrinks back into the shadows, leaving me hurting and dismayed once again. I'm afraid of being left alone and battered and rotting, forgotten in the corner of some abandoned place, while the world goes on without me, and the rest live with the happiness that wasn't meant for me.

Do I not deserve happiness as much as they?
What is it that I have done for it to shun me?

I am suffocating amongst the lives of everyone around me, as they press too closely to my own, but still each separate from mine. None are there to overlap and cross into the small bubble which is my life, they are each there to have their own. I am left to contemplate my loneliness as I watch their laughter and their love.

Now I find that I will do almost anything to become the important person in another's life. It is not such a terrible thing to want to be someone's love; it is not such a terrible thing to want someone to let you love them. Such desperation resides within me that I am almost willing to change my very essence to perhaps only have an opportunity.

But, however much I say this, there is still no chance of a romance anywhere in view; the sun beats down clearly on the sea, but there are no ships on the horizon. There are none who feel for me what I perhaps wish them to feel; there are none daring enough to want to. There is no one who suffers such insanity as to allow me a chance to love them and bring to them the happiness which currently evades me.

I am not surprised. And for this reason I have no tears to pour forth, only sorrows to wallow within.

When You Smile

I'm not in love with you. I promise. Right now I'm too afraid to let go, but feel that I must hold myself together, make myself small, and not let anyone see the fragility within my soul, as though I were made of glass. Right now, I swear I don't love you.

My heart doesn't beat faster when I see you, it just grows a little warmer.
My breath doesn't catch when I see you, it just comes out a little shaky.
My voice doesn't disappear when I see you, it just becomes a little softer.

There is so much affection I have to give, but I'm sure I'm not in love with you, so I'll hide behind my mask for a little while longer. I walk along the railway line, wondering where it could lead, balancing carefully on the track, but wondering how different each side would feel if I fell. I look down, careful to maintain the balancing act; just as a tightrope walker has no net to catch them, so too, do I not have anything to fall to. That's why I'm not falling for you. That's why I'm so careful not to stray from that railway line.

I'm certain that I don't love you. I pledged that I wouldn't. My long silences and shy glances don't mean anything, I assure you.

My being doesn't long for you, it just needs a little affection.
My soul doesn't yearn for you, it just needs another friend.
My arms don't fit impeccably around you, they just form the perfect cage.

And yet, when you smile that disarming smile, I confess that my heart stops for a fraction of a second, and I could almost believe I may have fallen for you indeed.

Life Behind the Lens

 Tell me, do your eyes flicker sometimes in that direction, or is that but a figment of an overworked imagination?
Do you bury yourself in your work, but still keep your ears perked for any sound of what's going on with someone else?

Is this why you hide in corners and lose yourself in crowds, because you try to escape what you wish you didn't feel?
You might lounge about beneath relief sculptures all you like, trying to immerse yourself in work, but the fantasy won't go away. You must face it, be bold.
You might become invisible among the crowd, but there will always be someone who is watching you out of the corner of their eye. Can you admit that you do the same?

The dream is to take up the camera, it always has been, even though dreams might fade in the light of reality. The idea is to shoot all that you care about, make an art from the lives of the people around you, and the minutiae of an everyday routine. Most of all it's about being able to hone in on the one you watch, carefully, so they don't notice, and capture their essence in a candid photograph, so that you might hold a part of them forever.

Taking this path means they won't ever see what's behind the person hiding behind the lens; that's the sad truth of it all. Perhaps you should tell them, before your world cracks like ice, and all the colour drains from the greenery.

Where Dreaming Ends

I spent too long in fantasy, I spent too long in flight. I forgot that I had to land on the ground sometimes and run; I forgot how hard it was to move so quickly. Soon I shall be stuck in that infernal twilight, where one life ends while another waits to be begun.

The dreams shall dissipate, and settle on the top of mountains like snow, only to be admired from afar. The only luxury I shall have left is to stare at that snow wistfully, but I'll be moving too quickly, too far away from it to truly revel in the sight. It will be a reminder of all the opportunities I had which I failed to grab hold of.

I hope you will take the story to heart, and not forsake opportunities which arise before you, but be bold and take them, wield them to your advantage. Fortune favours the brave, so be courageous and do that of which I was too afraid. Those chances may never arise again.

I will wish you the very best when we part ways, and there will always be that place in my heart with your name embroidered upon it. But that moment is not yet, so while we await its inevitable arrival, let us lie contentedly beside one another, and fall yet again into the dreams reflected in reality. For the time will soon reveal its presence, and chase dreaming from our lives.

London Calling

I'll wait until the sun goes down, and the city comes alive with light. It's artificiality will burn through my core, leaving a gaping hole, so that someone might come and find that they have an extra piece that fits just right, making me whole once again.

I'll wait under the maple trees, in the half shadows, the trees' bare branches a skeleton protecting me. I'll watch as the world goes by just past me, hoping to catch the eye of someone who recognises my forlorn look. I'll sit upon the ancient bricks, where many a lonely soul has sat before, their sighs reaching to the winter sky, pleading for help. To theirs, I'll add my own ghost, for I may just fade away there, having waited for far too long.

But perhaps the answer is not to wait at all, but to wander. If I traversed the banks of the great flowing river, among the artists and musicians all, perhaps I would find one who is as lost and alone as myself. Then we might find that we each have the piece of the other which we've cherished for so very long, hoping to return to its rightful owner.

We'll sit and admire the flickering lights on the Thames, passing hour by hour slowly, while the time flies by for those immersed in frivolity. We'll talk of dreams and hopes, the past and the future, the stars and the dust; and how we two might fit into the greater scheme of things, with our own personal niche in the world. We shall revel in quiet contentment in our private section of the city, beneath the darkened sky, hidden from the prying eyes of light.

The night will flicker and fade eventually, yet the memory will still remain imprinted into grass where we sat, just out of the circle of the lamplight. There shall be many a time where we walk past that very spot, and each and every time, the memory will be brought to the forefront of our consciousness, so that we might relive the night once again.

Yes, I'm certain, I'll lose my heart to London, and to one of those who reside among its ornately carved architecture. Perhaps one day I'll arrive there, and perhaps, I'll find the one who unknowingly has my heart. Or else the city might burn in the flames which were never ignited by an all consuming passion which never existed.

Quaint Categories

Who says that we can't break out of the constraints society places upon us? They have no right to sort us into their quaint little categories. There is something wrong with this world, where you can't be accepted as who you are, but what you are. The problem is that they have sorted you, and then, they don't take the time to look past that persona that they have built for you in their minds.

There are too many lonely people, there are too many who cry themselves to sleep because they cannot be accepted. It's not their fault; the fault belongs to all the rest, who are unable to see what they ought to be looking for. Search for the person behind the facade, not the person projected through attitude, or clothing, then you'll find what you should have seen the first time.

Until then, I shall wait in the rain for someone to glimpse my reflection in the puddle and see me from a different perspective. Then I'll wait until they have decided to stop categorising me and approach me as a person, and we'll proceed to embark on an amazing adventure, where we might sing in the rain without a care.

Dream of Recognition

The only hope we have is to cling to the rugged surface of this earth, spinning out of control in its tiny corner of space. We must hang on for the ride, or else we may be flung afar into the darkness, hidden by the light of stars which burn too brightly.

We must try to be the best we can be, while clutching to this fragile rock. It's not easy, it never will be, and it never has been, because everything spins too fast. One day, unexpectedly, it will change direction on us, and then we must adapt by fastening ourselves to a world that's upside down.

I'm not one who can easily adapt to change, facing it with the terror of not knowing what comes next. Yet sometimes, there is a change, if only in the pattern of the thoughts that paint themselves into the forgotten corners of existence, different from the rest, which prepare us, so that we might instead embrace the change we can see coming from far off.

I'm not the hero some might hope for, I'm not the leader some might look to; I am only a dreamer, who yearns for a different tinge of light. And I'll dream about the day where I'll stand separated from the rest of the rabid crowd, waiting to pick up my guitar and start strumming a better tune, hoping that someone might recognise it.

The Loneliest Galaxy

I'm spending my life developing my own galaxy, where no one but I can intrude. The dreams flash by me, spinning, whirling, reeling; everything I had ever wanted. Time ticks by at a different pace, and the worlds long forgotten are revived.

It's my own personal haven, a retreat. Seclusion is my best friend in this place.

And yet, I find that having one's own galaxy is not at all as good as it may seem. For what are amazing sites when you have no one to share them with?

Even to this far corner of the universe Loneliness has followed me.

It's the Fear

Mine is a story about the fear of fear. It's about knowing when you ought to do something, but not being brave enough to do it, for fear of ridicule or rejection, and not being forgiven. This fear is debilitating, stopping you in your very tracks, when you know it would be best to push forward.

It's as though I have come to the beginning of an important race, yet all my thoughts are about the fear that Fear will hinder me from doing my best. It is the fear of the sailor, that the Fear will stop him saving his captain during a vicious storm. Or the fear of a singer, that Fear will silence her voice when she most needs it.

Perhaps a better word for it would be uncertainty. The sailor is uncertain whether he will be able to save his captain, and the fear stops him from trying because he doesn't want to face his failure. The same with the singer. The same for me.

I am uncertain of whether now is the time to push on, whether I should let things lie as they may, and yet, I'm not certain of whether I can face the consequences of my indecision. The fear of failure stops me in this fork in the road. Which way will be the best to take?

You can't ever know. Even upon choosing a path, the wonder about the other haunts you, drawing your mind into situations of what could have been, whether it may have been better.

The only thing I know is that I don't want to be the one who is left crying on the stairs at the end of it all.

Angel of Grief

A snapshot, that's all I've ever seen of you. After all this time. The epiphany just struck - oh how little I know you, know your past. I appreciate who you are now, at this very moment, without understanding the forces, the ideas, the beliefs that guide you, which have carved you into who you are. It is not perfect understanding, I realise that, but nor is it ignorance.

You've shared all that you've deemed it necessary to share. And I understand. The same works the other way also. You don't understand a lot about me. How could you, when there is so much I do not understand about myself? Life is a journey of self discovery. But the thought strikes me in the heart, that there is so much I am not comfortable with, about myself, about those nearest me. Yet I am helpless to fix it.

While the emotions overwhelm me, uplifting me to the peaks of the highest mountains, and dragging me into the depths of the deepest seas, where I might feel the heat of the earth's core billowing up, I find that I am unsettled. Incredibly so. These are the emotions that no one takes the time to write about in their novels, or in their histories, or their plays. One day, all we shall leave behind are those books, false insights into the human psyche, because they do not tell of these emotions.

They do not describe what it is like to be so envious, that the jealousy resonates throughout your very core.
They do not tell of what it is like to never want to see the sun shine, because it mocks your unhappiness, telling you that it is time to face the world, when all you want to do is crawl beneath the covers, and suffocate in their folds.
They do not speak of the consequences of following intuition, nor the consequences of not following intuition.
They cannot reflect the thoughts that reel through the minds of everyone on occasion, of anger, darkness; Malignancy in its most pure form.

Their stories are all about those who overcome their sufferings, who find the light at the end of the tunnel. They do not speak of those in reality who do not come to the end of the tunnel, who get lost in the darkness along the way. They are false depictions of life, they are false depictions of death, they are false depictions of love, and loss, and suffering, and happiness.

If those who are trusted to leave imprints of our society behind for us cannot complete their task with all the details they should, but do not include, then how can we be expected to understand one another?

Beside you, I am but a scratch in the surface of the dust, while you are an entire well. But like all wells, the shadows down the bottom hide what lies beneath the surface and what you want people to see. Thus when you weep tears of blood from your eyes, no one will know why.

I cannot fear anything more than this. No one should suffer to see those they love in the depths of sorrow without understanding why. I shall try to bind your eyes, but there is nothing more cruel in this world than a fallen angel weeping blood.

Perdition

Walking with your head in the clouds, you don't see all that you ought to see. Look about you, Senseless One; your head might be thrust in fantasy, but your feet are firmly rooted in reality. More than rooted, you are chained there, that's why you long to escape. But you can never escape the chains which bind you to what's real.

Beat as you may those broken, pathetic wings, they can't ever lift you from the earth, so firmly are you held. Keep in mind, that the higher you fly, the further you fall. This is a reminder of how hard you hit the ground.

Keep your crown, keep your charm. It's of no use here. Flattery will get you no where; get used to this weathered rock, for this is where you're stuck. Ignore the intuition which tells you that things could be different, don't listen to the voice that whispers the answers to your prayers. You have brought this upon yourself.

You didn't take the chance to get what you wanted, then you repeated the mistake again. Stupid child, did you never learn? Now yet another will turn their back on you, joining the forces that watch you with silent eyes.

You chose the road to this, your perdition. It's unfortunate you didn't earlier see that it was a one way street, with a dead end. So suffer this torture, and heed the raven, that glossy winged guardian, mocking, reminding of the freedom you have lost, and your wings that can no longer beat.

Scream questions of when it will all end. Quoth the raven "Nevermore".

Undisclosed

They think that they know you, but the reality is, they have only glimpsed but a snapshot. They are only shown what you want them to see. There is so much more to learn.

There is much that is unknown. They do not understand the fears that plague you, that present themselves to you in a living nightmare. Fears of losing what is precious. Fear of moving forward with regrets.

You imagine yourself in twenty years, driving down the open road, with your memories splattered across the windshield. They bare your soul to you, making certain that you remember all that you had, and all that you didn't.

People think you strong, for they cannot see what it is that breaks you; the invisible force that presses down with every second. They'll love and support, but they won't understand the pain.

Nor will they ever understand the desires. What you want most in this world is what you fear losing. You need to cling to it with every breath, too tightly, as thought it might disappear. You yearn for someone to steal the pain away, to calm the fears, to stop the voices that tell you not to go on.

They have the happiness you believe unattainable, therefore they don't understand the worry, the helplessness, the hopeless outlook on life which you possess. You guard yourself too much in that fortress you have built to keep you from the world.

You express it all in words; in your imperfect diary filled with imperfect thoughts of an imperfect world. Yet you fear that someone might read it one day, that they might understand. So I'll take it from you, and burn it into dust, so that you might live your life free from the cage you have locked yourself in. Then I will fade into obscurity.

To All The Lonely People

The next time you feel that perhaps there's nothing left to hold on for, that there's nothing good left in this world, I want you to think. There is always something left, there is always something good, but perhaps you have to go searching for it.

What about all those dreams you'll never live?
What about all the lives you'll never touch?
All the sorrows you'll never feel?
All the happiness you'll never love?
All the things that you will miss?

All the things that will miss you?
What about all the people who love you?

But if you insist on leaving, I'd just like you to know that once you're gone, I'll sear you into the sunset, so you'll burn forever. I'll trace you into the earth so that no one might forget you. I'll paint you into the music, the songs that'll play forevermore. And I'll carve you into the hearts of everyone I meet, so that they might carry a bit of you with them, wherever they might go.

So go; jump, cut, hang, sleep. But don't be mistaken when you leave that no one thinks of you, that no one will care, because they do, and if you go they won't ever stop. And their grief will overflow the universe.

Leap of Faith

This world is full of people who are too afraid of taking chances. Everyday opportunities pass them by, and they aren't courageous enough to reach out and snatch them from the air. These are the things that they will think about for the rest of their lives, the ghosts that will refuse to go away, residing in the darkest corners of their minds, whispering ideas, situations, of what could have happened, if only they'd been brave enough at the time to do what perhaps they should have.

We all make mistakes, that's inevitable. They're what help us to grow and learn, and live, but becoming too timid causes us to lose things that we could have possessed. You don't have to know everything before you try something new, you don't always have to think about the consequences. It's not about analysing every situation before taking action, it's about trusting intuition.

So next time the opportunity arises, where the chasm between where you are and where could be becomes ever wider, whisper a prayer to the breeze, or clutch tighter that crucifix, your symbol of hope, or take a moment to touch that inner ocean of calm within you, then......leap!

You'll never know what you could've had if you never tried at least once to attain it.

The Lie Behind the Eyes

There are some in the world might try to bring you down with their cruelty, into their underworld of decay, but whatever might happen, never let them do it. They look on you with disdain because you represent everything they could never be: envy comes in many different forms.

I'll watch it all as you grow, watch as you pull it all together again, with tired eyes and firm spirit. I'll watch as you reassemble your facade, keeping yourself fenced off from the rest of humanity, and pretend that you live like you have no regrets.

I'll be there waiting at my own spot on the worn sofa for your return, to lift you up where others put you down, to read the story engraved in the lines on your face. It's the very story that no one else can read, hidden behind those tired eyes.

I can only hope that someone might some day do the same for me.

Animal Instinct

We like to believe that we are superior to most of the other creatures on this earth. This is because we do not understand. There is no common language, there is no common thought, there is no way to know, because they can't speak to us, nor can we speak to them. However, that does not make us superior.

All you must do is catch sight of an animal in the right  moment, rolling on the ground in laughter with its friends and companions, or look to see one supporting the other in a moment of deep grief. They feel just as we feel, they think just as we think, only we are too distracted to let our true thoughts come crashing in. Had we let them, we'd find that they are the same thoughts that the zebras have in the African savannah, or the eagles have in their loft in the cold mountains.

What is it that makes us think that we are above all other creatures?
Is it because we believe ourselves to be more intelligent, more capable of thought? This is not so, we are just unaware of the thought of other animals because they do not express it through materialism the way we do.
Is it because we think that we feel emotion more than any other animal? This too is not so, it is known that elephants are capable of the same range of emotions as we are, and yet, we have never seen an elephant start a war.
Do we believe that we are more creative? Have you never seen a bird's nest, or a caterpillar's cocoon?

You see, there are animals capable of things far beyond what we ourselves are capable, so perhaps we ought to think, who really are the inferior creatures, we or they?

We have lost our sense of community due to the lives we lead in this modern world, but if it all disappeared, we'd find that we had the same instincts as any other creature: the instinct to survive, to eat, to nurture, to share moments of laughter and grief. The instinct to live.

Tricks of Time

It's incredible how some things will stay with us, seared into our minds forever, while other things, perhaps those which we would rather recall, slip away from us. And yet, we are not to blame; the mind will always store what it knows to be the most important things for us as part of the bigger picture, disregarding all those other things we thought we ought to remember, but are in fact trivial.

So while some things will rot and crumble, putrefying in the niches of time, we cannot wish that we remembered them, for there are other things we ought to be looking forward to. Even if sometimes we are left to cast our eyes to the horizon in wistfulness, wishing to remember that which we have forgotten.

Past and Future Secret

Hold your breath, try make the moment last forever. It too will slip through your fingers, like sand forcing its way through the gaps you cannot close. And like sand, parts of the moment will stick to you, until such a time that you are ready to dust it off and leave it behind.

When you're ready, speak out. Speak loud, speak proud, live for what you believe. They can disagree, they can shout, they can threaten, but they have no power against you if you follow the path you feel is right. In the end, some things only alight upon us for a short moment, like the butterfly that pauses then flies again, dancing through the air, flitting among truths.

Don't wait for it, plunge into the moment; don't be afraid. The future's only the rest of your life, and you are the writer. The mistakes are what make you unique; never fear for what you cannot change. Look back to those moments you've left behind, and realise that the future is a brighter place.

Question Your Life

It's time for a change, the time to let a new way of life begin. We've forgotten our roots, where we came from, before we had perfect walls to contain us, and innovative technology to aid us. We've forgotten that we are indeed creatures of Nature, and thus creatures of the Universe.

It's time to trace back the family history, to see where we all began. We'd find that we're from far off places, so different, perhaps better. We must look to where we have been, to truly see where we are going.

Look at everything, question it all; the colours, the textures, the scents. Why are they all here? How do we relate?

Most of all, what can we learn from them?

It's time to focus on it all, and see the world through a fresh perspective.

Lonely Soul

The seconds tick by, the minutes drag on, the hours and days blur into one another. There must be something better ahead. There is nothing for me to do but sit there and wait, hoping against hope that whatever it is comes sooner rather than later. Is it possible that there is something better in this profane life?

We're put here in this world to learn something about ourselves; there is truth to be learnt from everything, if we open ourselves to it. Once we have learnt what we needed to learn, we depart; death is but our souls ascending to a higher plane.

That is, at least, the thought that comforts me during the longest days and the coldest nights. For the reality is, I'm just another lonely soul.