Musings

I was going through my diary entries from last year and found the following lines written on one of the pages.

'Summer days I remember

The Sultry melanch'

I don't quite recall now why I have left that word incomplete and where do these lines belong. I have never left anything unfinished and this is really a mystery to me. The first two entries on the diary page are lines from Dylan Thomas and T.S. Eliot. It's quite strange to be honest. I have googled a very many combinations of these incomplete lines but nothing has turned up so far. I am not sure if this is a poem or a verse. Aah! I wish I could just go back to last year when i was writing it and finish the lines. I get quite restless if I can't decipher a puzzle. And this is nothing short of a mystery.

I suppose its time hasn't come yet. Someday I will know what words come next to melancholy. Right now I feel what Virginia Woolf once felt.

I wish it were possible. Things come to such a standstill when we don't know what it is that we are looking for. There is a constant search for something that we haven't seen and yet we long for it. Longings and belongings also bring a great grief for those who cling to them. One of my favourite poems by Dylan Thomas is Love in the Asylum and he writes in there, 

A stranger has come

To share my room in the house not right in the head,

A girl mad as birds

I may without fail

Suffer the first vision that set fire to the stars.

I forever feel enamoured by that stranger. Is it me or my imagination that each poet tries to tell me what I don't wish to accept about myself? I am learning to embrace both the stranger and the girl who's mad as hell but knows she can get out of this misery to fall into another reverie, even if it is not forever.