I sometimes wish I could be the knight bewitched by La Belle Dame sans Merci. I might be doomed to an imminent grave, but at least I will enjoy heading to my doom.
Or, perhaps, I feel more like hopping in my skiff and riding the stream after failing to keep my focus on the mirror, and looking at beauty riding on by as did The Lady of Shallot.
Or give myself to the waters in a fit of madness, as poor Ophelia did.
Who suffered more? Tristan or Isolde? Let me taste that joy in the time before they fell.
This is all absurdity, and yet… and yet… At moments there was joy.

