duchess bee: LIFE IS NOT MEASURED BY THE NUMBER OF BREATHS WE TAKE, BUT THE NUMBER OF MOMENTS THAT TAKE OUR BREATH AWAY! |
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duchess bee: Lol!At least an elevator shaft isn't so public as a cliff! Sarcasm - a natural defence against drama, bullshit and stupidity! |
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duchess bee: Did you know 'another jim' that an 'ex' is called an 'ex' because its an EXample of what you shouldn't have again in the future |
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BTW, I was kidding about pushing my ex over a cliff. It was an elevator shaft... - | ||
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duchess bee: You know you love someone when you want them to be happy even if their happiness means you're not part of it. |
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duchess bee: Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the number of moments that take our breath away. |
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duchess bee: How beautiful is this world? Even walking down my suburban street to the corner shop today was humbling. It was quite cool and the sky was absolutely cloudless and such a magical blue. I saw half the moon up there and thought how cheeky you are...sneaking out during the day. And the same thought crossed my mind as it always has about the moon (and the sun and the stars, etc) that they have sat up there watching everything that has occurred on earth since the beginning. Mind boggling. Every human should be a poet as how could any person live amongst the beauty and the history of this planet without being emotionally moved to words. Ah, I love life! |
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duchess bee: I know I probably write about John Wilmont more than any other poet and others are quite bored with me (like my family) but he affects me like no others. His life was tragic and only because he made it like that on purpose. I'd like to share an excerpt of one of his last poems he composed before he died....'Thus with repeated pleasures, while we waste Our happy hours, that like short minutes paste, To such a sum of bliss our joys amount, The number now becomes too great to count.....The tide of pleasure flowing now no more, We lie like fish gasping on the shore.' I hope he finally found peace. |
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duchess bee: I loooove poetry that makes you feel, makes you soar and hours later you are still thinking about it. Thats why I love older poetry. Like the Earl of Rochester, John Wilmont. He lived his life in the mid 17th century as a resolute, a rake but his poetry was genius. Haunting, bittersweet but denigrating himself and life. So sad. He died at 33 years old, ending a gift few have |
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