THE lively sparks that issue from those eyes,
against the which there vaileth no defense,
Have pierced my heart, and done it none offence,
With quaking pleasure more than once or twice.
Was never man could any thing devise,
Sunbeams to turn with so great vehemence
To daze man's sight, as by their bright presence
Dazed am I; much like unto the guise
Of one stricken with dint of lightning,
Blind with the stroke, and cying here and there:
So call I for help, I know not when nor where,
The pain of my fall patiently bearing:
For straight after the blaze, as is no wonder,
Of deadly noise hear I the fearful thunder.
Sir Thomas Wyatt
A Strange Place
In this moment, I was the least sane I had ever been. That much I was sure of. My temples throbbed, and everything I saw in front of me was blurred and unreal, like an old movie that had been damaged with time.
The greater part of my intellectual mind told me it was a dream: he was not real. These were delusions, and nothing more. The love and passion I felt for him were misplaced emotions being wasted on a ghost, while a real man waited for me to come back from this regression.
The smaller voice in my mind, the quiet one, caused the problem. It was only a tiny voice that demanded my attention. Still, it promised me something I couldn't resist, making it impossible for me to do the sensible thing. All I knew was that if this was all false; a lie, I wanted it more than I wanted reality.
"I miss you, Bella. You belong with me." The voice was low, husky and absolutely perfect. It sounded like a prayer in my ears.
