Yes, I’ve already posted today, but I couldn’t wait until tomorrow.
Shuffling through my room, I noticed the top of my ridiculously full bookshelf was a bit askew. This is where my massive hardcovers share space with small pocket-sized books because they don’t quite fit anywhere else. Between Brisingr and Romeo & Juliet I spied Shakespeare Sonnets leaning conspicuously out of line. Curious and with no other real purpose, I pulled it out and opened it to a random page, remembering with some fondness the enjoyment I’ve gotten from the sonnets in the past. It’s been awhile since I touched it, and by some literary magic the book fell open to an extremely suitable page: Sonnet 27 if my counting served me correctly.
Though I’ve known it for several years, and have been told it by several people, I was reminded today of something I should carry with me always. For inspiration, advice, hope, joy, enlightenment, pleasure. Someone who shares ink and blood. Someone with more credentials than any contributor to a highly-Photoshopped beauty magazine, and he’s got my back, my heart, and my mind. And I’m grateful to him.
Reading this, I want to stand on a hilltop and scream it to the world. I want everyone to love these words. I want everyone to hear the sounds spoken through time, achieving immortality. Hear the truth in it. Taste it. Hug it. Love it.
Why is my verse so barren of new pride?
So far from variation or quick change?
Why with the time do I not glance aside
To new-found methods and to compounds strange?
Why I write still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention in a noted weed,
That every word doth almost tell my name,
Showing their birth, and where they did proceed?
O, know, sweet love, I always write of you,
And you and love are still my argument;
So all my best dressing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent;
For as the Sun is daily new and old,
So is my love still telling what is told.
~William Shakespeare, Sonnet 27