As part of my "not sitting at the computer" time today, I watched a movie (The Lion in Winter). It's a darn good movie, but the central plot development, a love needlessly abandoned that warps an entire family dropped me into one of those pensive funks.

A true love is lost for nothing, which suggests it was never true. Sure, I might find something nice to fill part of the hole, but everything from then on is warped by the lost thing. Cynicism replaces the purity of belief. Mistrust replaces wide-eyed acceptance. I become colder, more calculating, less open. Burned, I withdraw into myself, wary of any flame. I become less of a person and can that lesser person ever hope to attain what the greater person had?

Would Romeo and Julliet affect us if they were a cocksman and a slattern, bitter and jaded with broken trysts? Of course not, they would not have bothered to resist their families, let alone give their lives for lack of one another. As has been said, that magic of first love is something too precious to waste on youth and innocence which toss it o're their shoulder for a pretty bauble.

I want to be that youth again. To know everything in ignorance and conquer worlds in quiet conversations by the lakeshore. Youth, however, seems to have left me. Instead of infinite possibilities I face responsibilities and technicalities. I yearn to see simple trust in a gentle face, but am I trust-worthy any more? Have I become too harsh to love those who still believe?

The annoying part is that I can see that it's just a depressive spiral. I know it will pass, yet still I find myself writing truly horrible poetry about the feelings. It's life, everyone goes through it, we lose things we should have held onto. We hurt those we love the most and the hurt can never be taken back. There's no rewind button. We can't recapture innocence once we lose it. There will be other loves, other dreams, and other hopes. Moping about about it is just prolonging the pain.

At least if I was writing good poetry I'd have something to show for the day. Decent poets have the marvelous ability to claim any emotional disaster as an opportunity to create a masterwork. For me it's just a wasted 8 hours, added to the years already on this tally. Bah.

Enough. I will sleep. Tomorrow this will all seem silly. It will be a new day, full of hope and promise and potential. I will see the world reborn and the shining gleam of possibility glowing from every atom. The wonder in each person will infuse my heart with the desire to embrace the whole world. I will gaze out to the horizon and wonder what lies beyond. Then I will stop myself from trying to calculate just how far the horizon is and what exactly would be that far away... because that's just the kind of guy I am...