"I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion. "
Dowson knew what its like. When the pain in your gut eats you away and you hide your face against the pillow and scream and cry your heart out but still there is no relief, and you promise to the distant North Star at three in the morning to make you forget.... to heal... but it does not help.
It just does not. Its so pathetic... this sham of indifference that you adapt. "I Do Not----" is such a lie, and your friends listen to you sympathetically but you still feel guilty because half your mind is not there, its been locked away for life, and the effort is so much that you feel drained.
Damn I am being sickeningly pitifully "nyaka"....
So dushhala, I dont bleeding care any longer. I dont think I am all that bad. I am healthy, apart from the ache I have from the Topple... and all, I think I am just fine. I am dancing and boozing and singing and basically my exams are over and I have got myself a JOB. So I am fine. Fine.