TheWanderingPaddy

I do not love you except because I love you;

I go from loving to not loving you,

From waiting to not waiting for you

My heart moves from cold to fire.

I love you only because it's you the one I love;

I hate you deeply, and hating you

Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you

Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.

Maybe January light will consume

My heart with its cruel

Ray, stealing my key to true calm.

In this part of the story I am the one who

Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,

Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.

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You can travel the globe looking for memories,

and still find yourself standing behind a camera waiting for the world to hold still.

With every click of the shutter, you're trying to press Pause on your life.

If only so you can feel a little more comfortable moving on living in a world stuck on Play.

A part of you knows you can't take it with you but that doesn't stop you from trying.

"What if I could stay just a little longer?"

"What if we didn't have to go?"

We try to capture moments as if we're afraid they'll escape, but they'll get away eventually.

Take one last look.

One more shot.

So years from now you can flip back through, and try to relive it all over again.

But maybe even then, you'll be thinking to yourself, "Ah well. I guess you had to be there."

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These are my footprints, so perfect and so small.

These tiny footprints, never touched the ground at all.

Not one tiny footprint, for now I have my wings.

These tiny footprints were meant for other things.

You will hear my tiny footprints, in the patter of the rain.

Gentle drops like angels tears, of joy and not from pain.

You will see my tiny footprints, in each butterflies' lazy dance.

I'll let you know I'm with you, if you give me just a chance.

You will see my tiny footprints, in the rustle of the leaves.

I will whisper names into the wind, and call each one that grieves.

Most of all, these tiny footprints, are found in mummy's heart,

'cause even though I'm gone now, we'll never truly part."

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The Immortal Beloved (German "Unsterbliche Geliebte") is the mysterious addressee of a love letter which composer Ludwig van Beethoven wrote on 6--7 July 1812 in Teplitz. The apparently unsent letter was found in the composer's estate after his death, after which it remained in the hands of Anton Schindler until his death, was subsequently willed to his sister, and was sold by her in 1880 to the Berlin State Library, where it remains today.The letter is written in pencil and consists of three parts.

In its original wording.

good Morning on the 7th of July-- already in bed my thoughts go out to You, my Immortal Beloved, here and there joyfully, then again sadly, awaiting from fate if it will hear us--I can only live wholly with you or not at all, yes, I have resolved to wander away from you for so long until I can fly into your arms, and send my soul, enwrapped in you, into the land of spirits--yes, unfortunately it must be--you will console yourself, all the more as you know of my faithfulness toward you, never will another possess my heart--never-never--O God why must (one) remove oneself from the one whom one so loves, and yet my life in V. is a wretched life--Your love has made me the happiest and unhappiest of men at the same time--at my age I would need a constant sameness of life--can that exist in our relationship!--Angel, I have just learned that the post leaves every day--and therefore I have to close so that You will receive the L. right away--be calm, only by calm consideration of our existence can we reach our aim to live together--be calm--love me-today--yesterday--what tearful longing for You-You-You-my life--my all--farewell--oh go on loving me--never misjudge the faithful heart of your beloved. forever thine forever mine forever us.

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Funeral Blues W.H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.

Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,

Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest,

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;

For nothing now can ever come to any good.

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Frodo : I can’t do this, Sam.

Sam : I know.

It’s all wrong

By rights we shouldn’t even be here.

But we are.

It’s like in the great stories Mr. Frodo.

The ones that really mattered.

Full of darkness and danger they were,

and sometimes you didn’t want to know the end.

Because how could the end be happy.

How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad happened.

But in the end, it’s only a passing thing, this shadow.

Even darkness must pass.

A new day will come.

And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer.

Those were the stories that stayed with you.

That meant something.

Even if you were too small to understand why.

But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand.

I know now.

Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back only they didn’t.

Because they were holding on to something.

Frodo : What are we holding on to, Sam?

Sam : That there’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo. And it’s worth fighting for.

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