many a strange thing

perhaps what i miss is a fragmented recollection, its pieces so disparate that each act of rememberance is in essence the spinning of another tale.

each act of rememberance is in essence an attempt to beautify existence.

it was nothing short of trembling pain to watch the latin people. biggest mistake to have went there without sufficient guard, and it did not help that catherine recognised me, as did william.

all this unspoken tugs at your heart i hope you feel, i will not be the everyday companion because that is mundane, i can live the poetic truth with you. that void of monotony (reality) - what is cherished is always what did not conform.

this choreography of truth. each move a chord of pain struck. and there i thought i would; could, transform the teacup turmoil into a moving display and there i ended up with a mental block.

standing amidst the moving bodies, moving on without me. and i stood stockstill and whirled round, round, trying frantically to decipher the suddenly unfamiliar movements - and failed anyway.

this memory and the others i will keep and the wounds i will fester. for each sorrow and each gloom beautifies the prose and the dance.