Reflection on the dread

when love is rare and young, it's all real, but time always reveals the bitter taste of losing everything that I hold dear.



Kierkegaard knew the horror of everthing disappearing before a sick brooding over the tale of one's own miserable self. He sought for the way between this devouring of oneself in observation as though one were the only man who had ever been , and the sorry comfort of a universal human shipwreck. He knew the unhappy relativity in everything, the unending question about what I am .... a wound that will not heal.