Lucky are the ones who have the capacity to love, to hate, to cry, for many people go through life and work through each day as a task only without ever experiencing the fullness of emotions. Some live through all of their feelings, instincts and array of emotions each day, suffering the pain of each of their colors which can sometimes bring one to very sea cliff of madness.  Through this madness is born the poet, the actor, the artist and the thinker; those people who've evolved or dwindled into hermitry and all of its dark blessings.  

  Going through life in such an idol manner as to feel nothing, but to mechanically work through each moment of mortal life is lacking in all the depth and dimension of each experience and what it could have been.  Each longing for that which is beyond our grasp, each desire for someone beyond our embrace, those very things which waste and crumble, or lie deep in the earth, sleeping under the stars have such gravity and pull for those lost between the worlds of life and death.  The earth is populated with some many, but the connections here fail miserably and all is to be done is deliver the messages from one side to the other.  

  The capacity of heart that can fully love and go forth without fear knows no bounds except for the spiraling end when it has shattered to the ground.  Most fortunate of all was the receiving party to be graced as to have obtained such love, and the receiver must always dash it against the stones.  Therefore, those walking between life and death will love that which has fallen, that which is deep in the earth, those things which have wasted away to ash and splinters as these are all safe and certain; they have no other lovers and cling to a solitary hand which bridges, connects their lost worlds to the present.  

 Beyond the gift to feel every sting of each tear, each elation of a smile, is the capacity to understand it all and make good sense of it.  It is without the understanding that we turn to madness, or perhaps only silence.  

 To be without a single tide of sensitivity must indeed be a bleak and void life, yet so glamorous and tempting for those suffering; to be able to turn off an emotion as one would a water spout seems a grand illusion too fabricated to ever be true.  To believe in love, sorrow, joy hate and fear feels much like a fairy tale to those who have no capacity to understand or experience life through their spirits.  Nightly slumber and early morning dreams are black and formless; the fire of life has not ignited them for they are weary of each day and the circumstances which come with it they dare not to hope or wonder outside of that which is most common.

  To suffer from emotions is a gift taken beyond death and rewarded in the silence in which He brings; a broken, extinguished soul is no better than it was in life.  The promise granted is that we all have the capacity.

                                                                                                                                                    ~end~

  I found a very short letter typed on an old-world typewriter later this evening.  It was strange how it just fell out of some old books I had as I was looking through the train trunk which holds very old writings and 

things from long, long ago.  I think I may have written this when I was a teenager, but I just can't recall ever having written it.  I thought it befitting to tag on to 'Capacity.' Wherever it came from, it seems to echo a kind air that something is unattainable, unreachable until common ground is reached.  Or at least that is how I perceive it.  

                                                          Why the Trouvere Loved The Scribe

  The Trouvere had tried vainly for years to gain access to his own heart, but then you know how that goes; try and try again. 

  One day a scribe passed by, the Trouvere noticed this and asked, "I hear that you are a scribe in this land." 

  The Scribe replied, "Yes, that is true." 

  "Well then," continued the Trouvere, "is it not also true that you are a poet and a seer of visions?"

  "Yes," replied the Scribe, "but how could you know this?" 

  "Ah," smiled the Trouvere, "you see dear Scribe, I am all of these things and more. Tell me, do you find it difficult to exist in this dreary world with so few like you,

so few to relate to?"

"So I do," said the Scribe with her chin resting in her hand and looking thoughtfully into the distance.  "Tell me, dear Trouvere, can it be that you 

share my desolate thoughts and desperate feelings?"

  "I assure you,"  said the Trouvere, "that I feel all of these exactly as you do." 

  "At last," sighed the Scribe, "I have found one who is as I.  No longer does the nature of my muse compell me to stand alone even in the most crowded room."

  "I must confess to you, dear Scribe," said the Trouvere, "I too felt a dreary isolation because of the nature of my thoughts. Henceforth I shall not walk alone 

for now I now know that I am not alone."