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To me, there are no Gods; only Men. As fallible and fragile as anyone. To me, that is a comfort. And a curse.

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About Keats

Oh I'm sassy and I'm sexy, So silly sweet-and-sour Delightfully disastrous And deliciously dour I'm flippantly foolish, Filled I am with fear Can't concentrate completely, and my conduct isn't clear But to bravely be my best I Bring bravado back, BEHOLD!

5 responses »

    • I feel at times the loss of the comfortable lies of grief. I shant see him again, he’s NOT with his love “in a better place”. Just gone, only existing in memory. It’s rather strange and lonely to wish that you could believe a lie, just a little, just for this.

      • It must be said…I don’t think anyone could blame us for being a little envious of the believers, those of Faith, in such moments. It’s not that we want that, per say, blind faith, but that we can admire the knowledge that they can know, so utterly, that something will be better. We admire the feeling it stirs, the comfort of it, if not what must be sacrificed to gain it…

      • I am a sad, sorry thing right now; wishing for lies I could cling too but being far too sensible to concoct them. It is what it is, though, you are what you it. How comical and tragic it is to exist. How strange and impertinent is life?

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