You and Me- (Date Unknown)

  You tell me you love me and that you always will. I'm in awe..after all, I waited so long to hear those three magical words spoken from your lips. I began to think I never would. I feel all tingly inside,  but then I think, you may love me now, but what about tomorrow?
We are fragile beings you and me- restless souls.  What happens when the newness of us no longer exists? What if the night summons you and takes you far away from me? Would you love me then? What do we do with these narrow spaces? I want to fill them until they're no longer there, but I don't know how.

What would happen if we grow apart and someone else is part of your dreams?  We've both been here before. I wonder if the fantasy of you and me is still where I want to be. I want to tell you that I love you too, but I feel numb. The music is fading in the background, and I feel fragments of myself lurking behind me. I need to pull it together. You look deeply into my eyes impatiently awaiting my answer, and I think to myself, what a beautiful mess you are!

FALLING- 2005

Raindrops dance simultaneously to the roaring rythm of my wounded heart-  I'm thanking the moon for it's wonderous night.
Burning blazes of sun melt my delicate skin, I'm praising the stars for shining their light.
Earth shattering surges of pleasure and pain stream through my broken veins,
I'm smiling at the sky and its divine right.

The universe uniting-everything and nothing all at once.
I struggle, and fight, and think of you.

Virginia Woolf's Beautiful Wisdom

This is straight from Virginia Woolf's diary . She is writing about her thoughts on aging and the soul. So eloquently stated.  A literary genius and remarkable spirit.

"Odder still how possessed I am with the feeling that now, aged 50, I’m just poised to shoot forth quite free straight and undeflected my bolts whatever they are. Therefore all this flitter flutter of weekly newspapers interests me not at all. These are the soul’s changes. I don’t believe in aging. I believe in forever altering one’s aspect to the sun. Hence my optimism. And to alter now, cleanly and sanely, I want to shuffle off this loose living randomness: people; reviews; fame; all the glittering scales; and be withdrawn, and concentrated."

But the soul slips in most of all when the body slips out. In an entry from December of 1934, 52-year-old Woolf recounts visiting a dying friend — the Bloomsbury writer, journalist, and film critic Francis Birrell, forty-five at the time — with her husband, Leonard:

"Talk with Francis yesterday. He is dying: but makes no bones about it. Only his expression is quite different. Has no hope. The man says he asks every hour how long will this go on, and hopes for the end. He was exactly as usual; no wandering, no incoherence… The soul deserves to be immortal, as L. said. We walked back, glad to be alive, numb somehow. I can’t use my imagination on that theme. What would it be like to lie there, expecting death? and how odd and strange a death. I write hurriedly, going to Angelica’s concert this fine soft day."