The answers are written on the face of his fair wife, in her chiseled features of ice and stone. What has left her heart so hard? What has turned her love so cold?
Somewhere in her not-so-distant past, the woman has deeply loved and cruelly lost. Her young heart did break; many bitter tears she cried. But when her pain subsided, anger filled its void. She tells herself "never again." Next time, she will not cry. Next time, she will not lose. She will hold on to her beloved with an iron grip, and he will never leave her. He will be afraid to face life without her...
The man and woman meet--and court--and marry. Insecurity makes her long for control. She begins to nag; he begins to complain. Arguments ensue; she becomes angry. And so it begins...
Cool and calculating, she chips away at his confidence, his self-esteem, his pride. He begins to doubt himself. She ridicules him, and slathers humiliation on him like kisses. He begins to see himself as a failure and a fool. Like the constant drip of water on stone, her tactics wear him down, eroding his very soul...He loses sleep; food loses appeal. He is depressed, dejected, despondent-- he begins to feel trapped, at home and at work...
When his nerves are shattered and his sorrow is greatest, he welcomes death like an old friend. He tries to end his life--he fails. His efforts leave him frail and shattered. Overnight he has become an old man, trembling and unsure. He cries easily now...
But see his wife--her brow is smooth and untroubled; she accepts no blame, she feels no remorse. And yet her cheeks wear the stain of her humiliation--she is embarrassed by his agony; she is shamed by his weakness. She is angered by his attempt to escape her. And in her anger,she taunts him anew, and treats him with scorn. And so it begins once more... Their sad history seems doomed to repeat itself. Without change, there will be no winners here--in the end, Death will be the only victor ...
My heart aches for this young man...
Before it is too late, I want him to see that life is precious--and our grasp on life is fragile at best. We are only given one chance at living; I pray that he will not lightly throw that chance away.
I want him to understand that life is not black and white, with right and wrong answers. Life is full of choices; decisions made and paths taken add color and richness to the tapestry of life. But minds can be changed, mistakes can be corrected. Nothing is ever so broken it can't be mended.
May you mend soon, my friend...
The Sad Shepherd
THERE was a man whom Sorrow named his Friend,
And he, of his high comrade Sorrow dreaming,
Went walking with slow steps along the gleaming
And humming Sands, where windy surges wend:
And he called loudly to the stars to bend
From their pale thrones and comfort him, but they
Among themselves laugh on and sing alway:
And then the man whom Sorrow named his friend
Cried out, Dim sea, hear my most piteous story.!
The sea Swept on and cried her old cry still,
Rolling along in dreams from hill to hill.
He fled the persecution of her glory
And, in a far-off, gentle valley stopping,
Cried all his story to the dewdrops glistening.
But naught they heard, for they are always listening,
The dewdrops, for the sound of their own dropping.
And then the man whom Sorrow named his friend
Sought once again the shore, and found a shell,
And thought, I will my heavy story tell
Till my own words, re-echoing, shall send
Their sadness through a hollow, pearly heart;
And my own talc again for me shall sing,
And my own whispering words be comforting,
And lo! my ancient burden may depart.
Then he sang softly nigh the pearly rim;
But the sad dweller by the sea-ways lone
Changed all he sang to inarticulate moan
Among her wildering whirls, forgetting him.
And he, of his high comrade Sorrow dreaming,
Went walking with slow steps along the gleaming
And humming Sands, where windy surges wend:
And he called loudly to the stars to bend
From their pale thrones and comfort him, but they
Among themselves laugh on and sing alway:
And then the man whom Sorrow named his friend
Cried out, Dim sea, hear my most piteous story.!
The sea Swept on and cried her old cry still,
Rolling along in dreams from hill to hill.
He fled the persecution of her glory
And, in a far-off, gentle valley stopping,
Cried all his story to the dewdrops glistening.
But naught they heard, for they are always listening,
The dewdrops, for the sound of their own dropping.
And then the man whom Sorrow named his friend
Sought once again the shore, and found a shell,
And thought, I will my heavy story tell
Till my own words, re-echoing, shall send
Their sadness through a hollow, pearly heart;
And my own talc again for me shall sing,
And my own whispering words be comforting,
And lo! my ancient burden may depart.
Then he sang softly nigh the pearly rim;
But the sad dweller by the sea-ways lone
Changed all he sang to inarticulate moan
Among her wildering whirls, forgetting him.
William Butler Yeats
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