Such an ache: deeper and more trying than mere physical pain. It is that sorrow that shakes the core, which weeps for a loss not even its own. Is it just poison sickening the soul, seeping and contaminating an egoistic happiness? Oh heart, you betray me! You love, not for me but for some other!

    Is this trust that holds my tongue? No, no. You other, for whom this ache wracks my body and spirit, you are other and not I. No force, no wheedling persuasion, nor begging can move the apathetic heart. But does the silence penetrate? The passionate voice which speaks when called upon, but silent elsewise. Do the actions, faulty though they be, bring some light to your mind? It matters not, other.

      Why? What can the blinded eye not see, the clouded mind not comprehend? Personal confusion must be set  aside, and respect for your otherness must reign. Your choices rule your life: and your apathy weighs heavily on my mind. So that heart, that betrayer of my happiness, tears itself apart in prayer for yours. That, if that seemingly elusive being deems it, however it is deemed, your joy might be fulfilled: your peace found.

        And is this love? It lacks the romantic self interest and focuses on joy not my own. And the ache, the longing internalized, forever seeking through the soul to shape the stars and realign the universe. Do not mistake this person as unflawed or without the ego: the romantic self interest lingers on the outskirts. But it’s voice sulks and pouts or rejoices in imagined successes. It does naught to move that deeper feeling: it is shamed to silence.

          Silence. Apathy. Both without voice, but the one lacks the feeling to motivate the sound, and the other has deep rivers of passion, tumultuous and chaotic, simply tempered by the quiet mask it wears.


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