"I lov'd Ophelia: forty thousand brothers
Could not, with all their quality of love,
Make up my sum."
I should stop talking of love. But what else is there to talk of? Lust? Might as well be one and the same. What is life without love and lust? Boring, probably. There would be less pain. I guess that could be a plus. Without pain there would be no growth. The Plot of tragedy. Like is but a tragedy. Or a comedy. A comic tragedy? A tragic comedy?
Where was I?
Oh, yes, love.
Love. The common thread, yet it is so difficult. One would think the greatest commonality would be easy. But, no. Saying, 'I love you,' means more than one could possibly imagine. It means the world...and it means nothing. It is easily thrown away and easily thrown around. Too much is attached and the one it is for does not believe.
A million songs were penned in the name of it, but are they true? Were they broken? A thousand hearts broken.
I hate love.
Yet, how can one live without it? Impossible. Is this why I put hope upon it? It has given me little to hope for. Yet, love seems beautiful even in tragedy. There is always beauty in growth.
Oh, what broken hope!
But soft. All is quiet. Love is not here now. Just rosemary for remembrance and pansies for thoughts.
No, there is no love here...just hope.
"There is a willow grows aslant a brook.
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;
There with fantastic garlands did she come,
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples,
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,
But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them:
There, on pendent boughs her coronet weeds
Clambering to hang, an envious silver broke,
When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook. He clothes spread wide,
And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up;
Which time she chanted snatches of old lauds,
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indu'd
Unto that element; but long it could not be
Till her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death."
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