It's No Fun To Be A Bluestocking

Love And Hate Are Cruel, Only Liking Is Kind

Each Of Us Has Something Within Us Which Won't Be Denied, Even If It Makes Us Scream Aloud To Die. We Are What We Are, That's All. Like The Old Celtic Legend Of The Bird With The Thorn In Its Breast, Singing Its Heart Out And Dying. Because It Has To, Its Self-knowledge Can't Affect Or Change The Outcome, Can It? Everyone Singing His Own Little Song, Convinced It's The Most Wonderful Song The World Has Ever Heard. Don't You See? We Create Our Own Thorns, And Never Stop To Count The Cost. All We Can Do Is Suffer The Pain, And Tell Ourselves It Was Well Worth It.

Old Age Is An Ordeal, Of Flesh And Mind. Of Winding Down, Of Slowing Down, Of Dying Cells. It's Accepting The Loss Of Physical Attractiveness And Replacing It With The Power And Wisdom That Can Only Come With Old Age.

The Bird With The Thorn In Its Breast, It Follows An Immutable Law; It Is Driven By It Knows Not What To Impale Itself, And Die Singing. At The Very Instant The Thorn Enters There Is No Awareness In It Of The Dying To Come; It Simply Sings And Sings Until There Is Not The Life Left To Utter Another Note. But We, When We Put The Thorns In Our Breasts, We Know. We Understand. And Still We Do It. Still We Do It.

My Fictitious Characters Will Take The Bit Between Their Teeth And Gallop Off And Do Something That I Hadn't Counted On. However, I Always Insist On Dragging Them Back To The Straight And Narrow