It’s been so long since I read a poetry book, but I just borrowed this one from the library. It’s called Memories by Lang Leav. I’ve heard about her works for years, but never really read it until now. And that’s probably a good thing because had it been, say, 4-5 years ago, I would certainly still be drowned in the sea of sadness and misery.
I used to like to write a poem. Or in an occasion or two, a song. But I did not do it so much now. Why? You might wonder. I don’t know. It seemed like the moment I got the most inspiration was also the moment when my heart broke the most. And it’s strange because there’s a prose in the book I am currently reading, that tells me exactly the same thing:
As a little girl, she would drift in and out of libraries filled with dead poets and their musky scent. She held them in her hands and breathed them in – wanting so much to be part of their world.
It wasn’t long before Emily began speaking to her, then Sylvia and Katherine; their voices rang in unison, haunting and beautiful. They told her one day her poetry would be written on the ghost of trees and whispered on the lips of lovers.
But it would come at a price.
There isn’t a thing I would not gladly give, she thought, to join my idols on those dusty shelves. To be immortal.
As if reading her mind, the voices of the dead poets cried out in alarm and warned her about the greatest heartache of all – how every stroke of pen thereafter would open the same wound over and over again.
What is the cause of such great heartache? She asked. They heard the keen anticipation in her voice and were sorry for her.
The greatest heartache comes from loving another soul, they said, beyond reason, beyond doubt, with no hope of salvation.
It was on her sixteenth birthday that she first fell in love. With a boy who brought her red roses and white lies. When he broke her heart, she cried for days.
Then she met you, and you brought her dandelions each day, so she would never want for wishes. She looked deep into your eyes and saw the very best of herself reflected back.
And she loved you, beyond reason, beyond doubt, and with no hope of salvation.
When she felt your love slipping away from her, she knelt at the altar, before all the great poets- and she begged. She no longer cared for poetry or immortality, she only wanted you.
But all the dead poets could do was look on, helpless and resigned while everything she had ever wished for came true in the cruelest possible way.
She learned too late that poets are among the damned, cursed to commiserate over their loss, to reach with outstretched hands – hands that will never know the weight of what they seek.
~Dead Poets by Lang Leav
I was talking with one of my best friends about heartache and misery. It might sound strange to you, but there is certain kind of miserable feelings that we missed now that we’re more grown up. That kind of misery when you fell in love with the wrong person, made a bad decision, being hurt, hurt the one you love… You know, things that stemmed from having too much drama in your life. I said half-jokingly that we should probably create more drama if we’re longing for such feelings again. But we agreed that it’s probably better if we don’t. After all, life moves on and we’ll have more things to feel miserable for in the future.
I still envy the poets and people who could put their feelings and thoughts into a string of words and knit them into a literary work. I still wish I could do that.