Something was strange today. The cold breeze brushing past my face had numbed my senses and the scent of a distant lover unsettled my inner storm. The floor beneath my feet seemed to reflect a scene of life, so poignant and sacred.

It was a strange feeling of desolation, mingled with a strong sense of the novelty of my situation and a joyless kind of curiosity concerning what was yet unknown, that felt like I awoke a little earlier in the saturated morning, feeling like I was whirled away by enchantment and suddenly dropped from a cloud into a remote and unknown land; widely and completely isolated from all I had ever seen or known before or like a thistle seed borne on the wind to some strange nook of uncongential soil, where it must lie long enough before it can take root and germinate, extracting nourishment from what appears so alien to its nature; if, indeed, it ever can. 

But this gives no proper idea of my feelings at all; and no one that has not lived such a retired, stationary life as mine, can possibly imagine what they were, hardly even if she has known what it is to awake some morning and find herself in Bermuda, with a world of waters between herself and all that knew her. 

I shall not soon forget the peculiar feeling with which I raised my blind and looked out upon the unknown world; a wide, white wilderness was all that met my gaze; a waste of desert tossed in snow and heathen groves. 

I descended to my dead life with no remarkable eagerness to join my path toward peace though without some feeling of curiosity respecting what a further acquaintance would reveal. 

I had been very slow to take the hint because the whole affair of perfect ending struck me so absurd, but now I determined to be wiser, and begin at once with as much form and harmony as would be likely to require; and indeed, the children being is so much older, there would be less difficulty though the little words love and care seemed to have a surprising effect in repressing all familiar, open-hearted kindness, and extinguishing every gleam of cordiality that might arise between us. 

~She reminded me of

a warm summer day

the way the sun bounced off

her golden roots

gave shelter to lost stars. 

Her royal smell tangled

my body in cotton webs

tied among clouds and

her threads. 

She doesn’t walk beside

me anymore

but whenever there is a warm

summer day 

I feel her embrace.~ 

Such verses as these people write when they are in love! But no man in his senses ever thinks of feeling them fully. One more sorrow of life, in which there is real poetry and gave itself a vent, not that barren grief which the poet may only hint at, but never depict in its detail misery and want that sapiens necessity, in short, to snatch at a fallen leaf of the life brooding fruit tree, if not at the fruit itself. The higher the position in which one finds. 

I left the halted corner with a caravan of thousands of questions. The cruel existence of creatures had cleared out a long time ago. 

I fancy ever wonder that how lively, every lover’s heart on the street of Paris would get empty very soon. Still, I passed through several abandoned minds pathetically rusted up.

Except love, I’ve never seen anything so unreal in my life. And outside, the silent wilderness surrounding this cleared speck on the earth struck me as something great and invisible, like evil or truth, waiting patiently for the passing away of this fantastic invasion. 

I strolled up the pavements and lifeless grass shed full of calico and cotton-printed field. There was no hurry. You see the things gone off like a box of matches. It has been hopeless from the very first. The flame has leaped high, driven everybody already a heap of embers flowing fiercely. 

This world is an excellent mindless clone guided the time by back-biting and intriguing against each other in a foolish kind of way. It was as unreal as everything else, as the philanthropic pretence of the whole concern, as their talk, as their engraved rule, as their show of cascade,

The only real feeling was a desire to get attention and privilege to be the one and only. 

Maybe, it is impossible to convey the life sensation of any given epoch of one’s extant which make its truth, meaning and subtle and penetrating essence.

Of course, in this place, you fellows see more than I could. You see me, whom you know nicely but I had become so pitch dark that you could hardly see. They got glittering mica eyes to see the charmed life of animals but how could they ain’t see a disturbed and considerably puzzled person and made me much more hopeless than I had been before. It was an inextricable mess of things decent on themself but that human folly made look like the spoils of thieving. 

They are question but their exteriors resemble a cruel butcher pawning the past of someone’s life just to satisfy their hungry desires of stripping out perfect wretch, an oblivion pool of unhappy mansion.