The Diary of Seed, 8-17-09 (Angst and Flowery Language Warning)

The flowers are all dead. As I sit, among flowers or in the waters before the idol and her ever-streaming tears (who is she missing, in her heart of hearts? Who is she begging she could relive one moment with? Or am I begin silly, subjecting her to my pains?) or beneath the bridge or under the soft singing of the old oak, with some dear comfort or alone, or eating or drinking with Scape, the thought keeps ringing in my head. The flowers are dead. I know it's silly -- even I expected this, inevitable as any winter ever is, even if I neither wanted it nor believed it fully until now. My own dearest one will likely never return. I still love her. I always will. Love without hope is a bitter wind; Love without hope is ice in the soul, stabbing straight through the heart... I miss her. I miss hoping for her. I'm sorry. I'm rambling... I just feel I should say something, but don't know what to say. I'm a poet: it is my instinct and my nature to take the hole in my heart, the thing that eats at the whole of my heart, that bottomless pit that sings and howls and calls me ever closer to its edge... and fill it up with words. I throw words into its depths and see what sticks, try to plumb it out, try to see if there is a bottom to it, or if it is just the great endless maw of infinity. I see the echoes of her everywhere: in the flowers, and the butterflies soft fluttering, so like her eyelashes; I see her in the flow of the river, and in the broadness of its current; I see her in the slow, weeping fronds of the willows; I hear her in the lulling voice of the oak. And everywhere I see the trace of her, the sign that she has been, the sign that she existed there, for a moment... I remember that she is gone; that she will not return in any imaginable future; that the flowers are all dead.

A god came to the forest today: a god, in such a time as many deer believe the gods have abandonded us. It was a marvelous, welcome diversion. But it was nothing more: I know better than to see it as a blessing or a curse, an apology or a mockery. But -- in its own way, it was a blessing. That thought had no room in my mind, edged out by the delight of the God's antics. It had no expression besides, in such a crowd. Not long before I had to go, I even danced with Scape before the God. It didn't last long, but it was a thankful diversion.

I'm a little surprised at how many deer decided to try and comfort me: Lemon, out of her self-imposed exile; some lovely fawns, likely unknowing but sweet; The Fawn Skylark, distant and present at once; Kaoori and Mystress, who tried their best to distract me from my throughts; Virgil, who brought his friend Puppet and stripped his antlers bare in solidarity; a few good stags and does I do not know; the fawn Oisin, who was very patient; and Scape, who I'll never understand what I did to deserve, who sat with me and let me muss his fur with tears and whispers for what seemed like forever. I can never thank them all enough, or repay them for their patience. I'll try to pull myself together. Love is beautiful: let it never be said I feel otherwise. If it wasn't, this wouldn't hurt so much.

((Seed neglects, I think, to mention he wrote a sad poem. Here it is))