“My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk”

He was right, Keats was right, if only I had the hemlock alongside by the journal, I could conquer my lost sense of direction. As if now, I only have his words, so I shall continue reading.

“Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards”

The viewless wings of Poesy. I do have them if Keats could escape so will I, with a poem. Out of the million traces of the words, I wish the words I write tonight shall transcend me as if a magical spell written on the pages from my wand and spoken out loud in the mind.

“From the far edges of my conscience, I dream,
A world surrounded by mystery,
From the far essence of a yearning place,
Take me away, from the pain.”

I kept the pen on the desk, could not continue the poem. One of those things that you think and feel worse because you can’t really escape. The next best thing would be a good sleep, a strong sleep, not just a few hours but for dreams.
I took out the envelope from the bag and immediately slapped the last nicotine patch. One is not enough, but my mind had Keats tonight, the subconscious would be powered up.

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