Sonnet 116

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me prove,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
~ William Shakespeare

This is one of my favorite poems of all time. It expresses perfectly my thoughts and feelings about what true love is. It does not lessen when new information or events come to light. It does not change except to become stronger with time. I really hope someday to find someone I love this much...and who loves me. I'm still looking. No one I currently know fits this description yet, but love is something you kinda grow into I think; especially when you've been hurt by fleeting "love" or infatuation in the recent past as I have.

I've worked the last year to overcome the remnants and heal the wounds that still sting now and then. I've come a long way, so far, in fact that I have been writing and feeling and imagining again that love is actually a possibility. I found a Muse that has inspired the romantic in me and I've written some pretty good poems through his influence in my life. I'm pretty sure he's completely unaware, and it may be better to keep him that way, although I would like to know his opinion of me as a poet.

The funny thing about being a writer, and particularly a poetic writer is that I see situations differently than others do. I see a situation or an experience and I am almost immediately changing it in my mind to make it more romantic and poetic. This makes for some great poems, but the trouble comes when people who read the poems don't understand that a poem is not always a piece of the writer, it is something she/he created, but does not necessarily represent the opinions or ideals or true perspective of the person herself/himself.

The real trouble comes when the poet forgets this and starts believing her own romantics. The poems I've been writing are rather intense with emotion and passion. I became overcome with lust of the passion in my poetry that I became confused about my real feelings for the Muse who inspired them. I don't know if it's the person himself, or simply the poetry he induces that I've become somewhat obsessed with. I want to tell him about my experience and what an affect he's had on me and my writing (and healing) process, but I'm afraid that telling him will break whatever spell I've been under.

I haven't written a new poem in over a week...partially because he hasn't been around so much the last week or two, partially because I haven't had much time. I want to write more. I want to write diversely, though, so I suppose I should seek out other muses to encourage and inspire my writing. Oh how I wish I could be as amazing as Shakespeare! If only I could write like him, my whole life would be satisfied and I would want for nothing. But then, writing has become like a drug for me recently. I've become so high from the poems and the passion behind them that I feel it's like an addiction. I'm addicted to the words, the poems, and to some extent, the Muse. I'm sadder when I don't interact with him, and I'm high when he's around.

The life of a poet is absurdly unstable. I wonder if I should really pursue this course as a career, I'm already so unstable as it is. La la la! Right now I just don't care. I love the way it makes me feel, I've never been so inspired or written such great poetry...and I've never been so happy as when I'm sitting by my Muse, writing poetry he has no idea he's inspiring! I really hope it lasts a while...