Fragments

Something must be profoundly wrong with a person who feels the need to write in the middle of the night, unprovoked in any way. What is she feeling? What is she thinking? How could anyone ever comprehend what that is in her heart, in her thoughts? Herself included. How does one tell eccentricity from insanity?

* * * * *

How could she be but moved? When he looked at her, he really saw her. Not just how she appeared, but who she really was. In his eyes was the intense, burning passion she had yet to know existed. When he listened to her speak, he really heard her. Not just the words, but the very train of thoughts that brought forth the words. He felt the emotions that lay deep in her heart. When he spoke, his words resonated with her own. His thoughts were her own. His fears, his dreams, his aspirations were her own.

* * * * *

He said that yearning for something you know you cannot have is like crying for the moon. No matter how hard or how long you cried, the moon cannot come to you. That is truly the saddest sort of longing, isn't it? Knowing the impossibility of one's dreams and yet, wholly powerless and unable to stem the want; bearing the painful consciousness of the harsh reality, and being plagued by melancholy thoughts of what could had been, what would had been. And one continues to yearn - through bitter tears, through sleepless nights, through ceaseless heartache.

* * * * *

She would not speak of it. She would not respond to questions nor jests nor provocation. One thinks one might know what she was thinking, what she was feeling, but most of the time, one just couldn't be sure. There were tell-tale signs in her facial expressions - the emptiness, helplessness, being lost in thoughts. Looking at her, one could almost feel the woes of her withering heart. There is no remedy, no appropriate cure nor comfort - not for one who'd been forsaken, not for one whose heart was cruelly cast aside and trampled on. None at all.

* * * * *

One tries hard to comprehend the need for one to spend time being solitary. Why is there the need? To straighten things out, to clear one's mind, or to simply be removed from all the earthly elements of one's life for a while? To talk to oneself, to reason, to delve into the deep subconsciousness, to discover what one really wants? Or just to be. How does one tell eccentricity from insanity?