This is the time for what my dad fondly refers to as "the last burst of fire". What fire? My passion is spent on too many frivolous things. A waste of spirit. Do I stay and fight now, or turn tail and run, whining to whoever wishes to feed and clothe me that the life is too hard, too joyless, too bleak?

I am weak willed, weak spirited, too tired. So tired. But too cowardly to end it all. Too weak to hold back the tears, to lazy to focus, to dispirited to retain any flicker, in any shape or form of some driving ambition. Too weak. Too lazy. This comes from too much of a pampered life.

Do you know? When I leave, I leave nothing of me behind. No love letters, no mementoes except the scarred and battered silver key-ring I bought for him. I have already torn up every letter I wrote to him in my mad fits of passion when I was insane with fury.

It leaves a galling taste in the mouth.

Nothing. I am nothing. Having wasted it all on a frivolous youth. The grasshopper fiddling away his life.

***

If I stop writing for a bit, maybe I am attempting to rectify all my sins.

***

Sonnet 129

The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action; and till action, lust
Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,
Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight,
Past reason hunted, and no sooner had
Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait
On purpose laid to make the taker mad;
Mad in pursuit and in possession so;
Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;
A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;
Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.
All this the world well knows; yet none knows well
To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.