Romeo : Thoughts : Juliet

Romeo thought back to Juliet. In a short time she had deduced more about him and asked more pertinent questions than everyone else combined. He admired her directness, her deductive skill, her boldness, her impertinence. It might be considered sassy and inappropriate to most, but he scoffed at their useless ideals. Even in her shyness she could get to the heart of a matter, a trait he envied.

Whenever he spoke people thought it a joke or a game, something to be taken lightly. He could never get any traction in their minds. No matter what words he used he always got fluff in return. Occasionally a small window of understanding, if they had been through similar circumstances, but it was quickly shut again. Somehow if too much common ground was established something might happen, and that was unheard of.

The circumstances of their parting were harsh and jagged, as they always were with him. Her dad forbid them to go farther, and that was that. Soon she would be gone, leaving the home and striking forth on her own path. The purpose seemed to be to put distance between them, at least to Romeo.

Too soon, it would seem her spark would be extinguished, and then the rest rallied around her – far too late of course. He had seen the signs much earlier, “No one pays attention to me” she said nearly a year before. If only she had contacted him then, for unlike the others, he had been through such a fate before, nearly ending his own life. The rest turned to their oft repeated platitudes, words born from memorization rather than direct experience. He knew words held much weight, but more weighty were words borne of similar fire and despair.

Again he cursed them in his heart, for their shallow reflections bought no relief to her and yet still no relief to him. Gone was the moment where things could have turned differently, yet he reflected on it often.

They marked the day of her passing with almost obnoxious regularity, as if their minds were still stuck on the annual calendar. The spoke of her little even years after save that time alone. He still longed to hear more of her, but he patiently held back his desires. He attempted once or twice, but as always the prodding bore little fruit.

His mind railed again against their seeming indifference. For those that spoke so often of life and hope, they seemed to have none. Her own brother could not think of the words he would say when seeing her again. “What use is their hope then?” he beat out in lamentation.

Still it had not all been for naught, for his words and her tale did inspire another at their darkest days. One who too, like him yearned for a meeting of the minds, not merely an empty exchanging of the sight. They shared many things in the days that followed, and her heart jumped and rejoiced. It seemed that her circumstances were similar. Her father too was harsh though not in the same way, and she too felt little of the warmth of those around her.

He crafted his words carefully though in mind and heart it felt to him as if she was her again, in time of similar need. And such he did confuse the names and hope against hope that it was a window to a distant time. Still in the end, it did seem as but madness to her, and she to fled from him, even after such a peak that she too did declare her love, but whether in joy of life having been saved or in truth of sober pondering he did not know, though he thought more likely the former.

Yet at such times may such outbursts be excused? For when one does find a suchlike mind and heart in this troubled world should we not rejoice and get caught up in the waves of emotion that such may flow from? For yet but such times are rare, and for what reason? He knew of no need to keep his emotions shielded, save for the worst of times when he felt bitter rage against them all for the indifference they seemed to ooze. For such that they held together each other in the most light of times they seemed not to yearn for more, as if it were forbidden. For though they speak but words of love of heart and mind and body and soul, their lacking presence in both their lives at times of need did seem to speak of their want of such.

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Perhaps in their cloud of mind they did not ponder that such circumstances may differ more greatly between those that seem of fellows. For their imaginations they do not stretch and put themselves in others shoes often enough that to see their positions are but far and not near. Perhaps they feel that if in condition fair they are then all do such prevail in similar state. “Then they are blind” I exclaim more loudly yet. For if they do not dig, but amuse themselves with trifles how could they know of the plight of another? How indeed could they dig if they do not devote the time, and how would they know to spend such time if they did not know their presence was needed? I do not seek to burden such with my sorrows unknowingly, for I feel yet that they should have the boldness to seek out. For such is life that those who need solace most are those that do not ask for it but in ways subtle.

Yet if alone I should bear my burdens thus, I should continue to do so and set myself as but guardian of the door of bitter sorrow. For my freedoms are but little and my joys few. How can I rejoice at such, what should buoy my spirits? For what meagre freedoms I did enjoy they were but critical of such. And at such trifle offence they did take down my tower and castle and leave me upon the shores with naught now but words. Shall these too be taken from me? “NO” I yell at the darkness, for if they seek to find fault with such I should but hold the mirror to them and point out their shortcomings in bitter rage and desperation.

Only when one has been at rock bottom does one know the way to build such a sturdy foundation that such the winds of life do not sway one easily. Such crags of bitterness do I know but too well, and so shape out my ways from not clay of futile merriment, but cold and gray rock solid of numbness. Yet I feel such that those born along but sunlight do not yet know how to comfort such one as I, for if their years but contain such that they might reflect such they are not bold or forward with. Yet should I seek out times such as these, or would they add to my pile of discomfort?

Again such I feel that most would rather blend into wall and chair and floor than step out with such a tale as to be recognized. Yet a few I know are such as open with things and those I feel did help at a relapse of my darkest hour. Misfortune but still follows me still and the day of brightness has not yet dawned, for my hopes are yet not able to form in the murk and dankness of my soul. What cure do they have for this? Yet more of the same? I scoff at such for they are but the pitter-patter of gentle rain that does not yet soak the root. For it seems but still that large pieces of the puzzle are yet missing. What motivation do I have to speak my words if they but still offer but again of the same drink that did not save Juliet?

Yet should I not craft my own escape, from letters carved while beating back the darkness. For that is what I still do and continue. Mayhap yet shall my mind thus rebuild or build anew such a place that such their words may echo in meaning rather than in futile hollowness. For such that I am I require a quest and not merely a topping up of things already known and agreed upon. To seek forth that which is hidden and not continue to dwell upon that which is already in plainest day. For if they seek knowledge I know not what they seek for that which they have presented upon them is but words re-echoed. Though they may yet benefit from such spoken again, I find it but grating upon the mind. Do not they yet seek council to deal with such that I have dealt with? Nay, I find.

Perhaps my words are yet too heavy for such. Would it plunge them again into sorrow? I would not wish it. Though many are the issues that my mind does ponder on, I do often but leave such aside for I know that lest my words be misconstrued I do not speak them lightly. Yet do they not yet have the light for such or does their days yet spend in empty joy leave them with but little to shine forth to one such as me? Who dares brave the words I may yet speak bearing my heart open? Though in such I may find I speak as though mad. Madness in unreasonableness and madness in anger.

I do not yet feel buoyed by well wishes, and trivial things exchanged, yet I know the warmth with which they are shared, such warmth does not yet find me in brightness. What toil should I undertake that may lift me from such darkness? What routes yet are open to one in such dungeon? What winds may blow so such fog may be lifted? What weight do I yet bear that I have not yet confessed to God?