the sunrise that never came III: of people and things

People come and go in our lives, way more often than we think.
Yet on those days when some people creep back into your mind, you’ll know they were never meant to leave your life. They wouldn’t stay in your life physically; they wouldn’t even speak with you again. But they’ll walk into your dreams; they’ll appear as faces in the dark; they’ll hold a corner of your heart. And that’s when you know, they matter.

In the wee hours of the day, I think of a poem “The Dream”, and realised that it has been 2 days past the birth of one of my preferred poets – Edgar Allan Poe (19 Jan 1809 – 7 Oct 1849).

They call it “unrealistic”, “escapism”, “impractical”. But sometimes, people hold on to dreams because it is the only source of light in a world of darkness that envelopes them. Where confusion and pain befalls reality, peace and hope is offered in dreams. The believer does not mistake a dream for reality; rather, he dreams of a more satisfying life that he never had, He holds on dearly to a strain of the past, bringing with him into present day, what was beautiful and which mattered. Dreams are a recollection of the past, but also stand as an alternate land where one visits, to relive more pleasant days. But like a double-edged sword, while we hold on to beliefs that society criticizes, in dreams we realise the pains of being awake.

The Dream
In visions of the dark night
I have dreamed of joy departed-
But a waking dream of life and light
Hath left me broken-hearted.

Ah! what is not a dream by day
To him whose eyes are cast
On things around him with a ray
Turned back upon the past?

That holy dream- that holy dream,
While all the world were chiding,
Hath cheered me as a lovely beam
A lonely spirit guiding.

What though that light, thro’ storm and night,
So trembled from afar-
What could there be more purely bright
In Truth’s day-star?

Poe’s works never fail to emphasize on his dark wishes to return to days in history; his awareness of the world’s disdain towards his by behaviour, but which his acknowledgement for it’s necessity in sustaining his existence. I continue to stand in appreciation of the works of this mistaken talent. Edgar Allan Poe.

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resigned to an unfruitful year

This huge bout of unpleasantness has hit the recluse again, and has resulted in a lack of posting, inspirations or anything positive. Evidently there has been reduced interest in travel, food and in plain English, anything!

It’s almost as if nothing impresses anymore. This unhealthy mood could last forever and I couldn’t be sure how or why it happened. Nonetheless, recent reminiscence has brought me back to looking at Poe’s works:

A Dream
In visions of the dark night
I have dreamed of joy departed-
But a waking dream of life and light
Hath left me broken-hearted

Ah! what is not a dream by day
To him whose eyes are cast
On things around him with a ray
Turned back upon the past?

That holy dream- that holy dream
While all the world was chiding
Hath cheered me as a lovely beam
A lonely spirit guiding

What though that light, thro’ storm and night
So trembled from afar-
What could there be more purely bright
In Truth’s day-star?

Indeed, these words ever stringing the heart. In the dream, the unknown world, a place so much more acceptable than reality. And in this world we see what is pleasant, what is heartwarming and what happens to be a fragment of a hidden memory. Something that no-one might comprehend, but would have meant so much more than monetary values could measure.

In a deep and dark corner, dousing the sorrows with a Black Russian. Awaiting still, for the sunrise that never came…

the sunrise that never came I

My admiration for Poe grows deep and strong, with every word I read from his poems, and the heart grows fonder as identification becomes more apparent…I remember seeing myself in “Alone” by Poe, and I recall this mesmerization I had for his text that I took a month indulging in his works.

Today marks a day which demands Poe’s great poetry, of which they would time and again surface on this site.

Alone
From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then-in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life-was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

How apt, of “Alone” to embellish this very day. While a fixation on the past might be a futile attempt to hold on to hope, it is this very memory that keeps one going. This realm of unreality, if succumbed to the stark truth that envelops us, will soon engulf even the last bit of sanity.

Edgar Allan Poe, he who describes succinctly and with such intensity, these deep unfathomable feelings to the rest of the world – a talent no longer seen today – he who had used his strong words and moving imagery to express all that I could not. A first form of recognition, Edgar Allan Poe gave reassurance that there was someone out there who had once understood and lived this estranged feeling.

The creative talent, this exquisite poet, this misunderstood man with utmost sophistication in his words. To Edgar.