There Are No Ambitions Noble Enough To

I Hate Being On My Best Behavior. It Brings Out The Absolute Worst In Me.

What Was Sleep? A Blessing, A Respite From Life, An Echo Of Death, A Demanding Nuisance?

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.

And Gradually His Memory Slipped A Little, As Memories Do, Even Those With So Much Love Attached To Them; As If There Is An Unconscious Healing Process Within The Mind Which Mends Up In Spite Of Our Desperate Determination Never To Forget.

How Frightening, That One Person Could Mean So Much, So Many Things.