De profundis clamavi

True to form, Baudelaire's ennui seems to match mine. The past few days have been hard: mostly listless with the occasional acute crying jag, which normally takes place at the most inappropriate time and location. I haven't cried like this since La Jolla, around this time last year. I cry all the time, sure, but mostly over stupid shit. And it's mostly out of rage. This time it was just from helplessness and the knowledge that things will never, ever be the way I want them to be. Stupid. Stupid.

But he held time still for me, for a little while. The day before he left R. and I were fretting and discussing, chewing on our cigarettes and ruing his evasiveness. He would not say goodbye, we thought. But he did. To both of us. It was literally hours and I had given up hope. But he made it beautiful before he crushed my dreams by walking away. We talked for hours, muttering and hypothesizing. What if, what if. What if nothing, it's all over now.

No buildings fell down, though.

Sometimes I wonder if Baudelaire is reading my mind or if I am simply molding my despair to fit his. Who knows.

From the Depths I Cried
I implore your mercy, You, the only one that I love,
From the lowly chasm where my heart has fallen,
It is a dreary universe sealed by the horizon,
Where horror and blasphemy swim in the night;

A sun without warmth glides above six months,
And the other six months night covers the earth;
It is a country more bare than the artic land
—Neither beasts, nor brooks, nor greens, nor woods!

Yet it is not the horror in the world that transcends
The cold cruelty of that icy sun
And that immense night like the old Chaos;

I envy the lot of the loathsome animals
Who can plunge themselves into a stupid sleep,
So long the web of time unwinds!

De profundis clamavi
J'implore ta pitié, Toi, l'unique que j'aime,
Du fond du gouffre obscur où mon coeur est tombé.
C'est un univers morne à l'horizon plombé,
Où nagent dans la nuit l'horreur et le blasphème;

Un soleil sans chaleur plane au-dessus six mois,
Et les six autres mois la nuit couvre la terre;
C'est un pays plus nu que la terre polaire
— Ni bêtes, ni ruisseaux, ni verdure, ni bois!

Or il n'est pas d'horreur au monde qui surpasse
La froide cruauté de ce soleil de glace
Et cette immense nuit semblable au vieux Chaos;

Je jalouse le sort des plus vils animaux
Qui peuvent se plonger dans un sommeil stupide,
Tant l'écheveau du temps lentement se dévide!