The Crying Harp

You know, I felt the need to type another post because the other one is so beautifully incoherent. So here is another wonderfully incoherent post.

I am back in the gray valley, floating in the mist of a cold rain. I am so many places at once. I feel the heartache of Autumn, the desolation of Winter, the apprehension of Spring, the failure of Summer; Back into Autumn. I ask the forgiveness of Time, afraid to be condemned, assured that I will carry that hopelessness for a long time. I am currently reminded of a beautiful sorrow which cannot be relieved, which cannot be denied.

Ahh, how passionate those moments of complete and utter isolation were. I thought a mountain top would be the perfect place to speak to the Heavens, who knew a bottomless ocean was more fitting.
Cold and alone, desperate, tragic, and solemn; Yet, the innocence still remained preserved.

There is nothing I can do now. It is nothing but a dream. Dare I be tempted by the illusion, into the well I will fall.

I'll always miss that place, until I am unable to forget its despair. Good riddance, my beautiful ruiner.