Robin red breast..

"Who killed Cock Robin?" "I," said the Sparrow,
"With my bow and arrow, I killed Cock Robin."
"Who saw him die?" "I," said the Fly,
"With my little eye, I saw him die."
"Who caught his blood?" "I," said the Fish,
"With my little dish, I caught his blood."
"Who'll make the shroud?" "I," said the Beetle,
"With my thread and needle, I'll make the shroud."
"Who'll dig his grave?" "I," said the Owl,
"With my pick and shovel, I'll dig his grave."
"Who'll be the parson?" "I," said the Rook,
"With my little book, I'll be the parson."
"Who'll be the clerk?" "I," said the Lark,
"If it's not in the dark, I'll be the clerk."
"Who'll carry the link?" "I," said the Linnet,
"I'll fetch it in a minute, I'll carry the link."
"Who'll be chief mourner?" "I," said the Dove,
"I mourn for my love, I'll be chief mourner."
"Who'll carry the coffin?" "I," said the Kite,
"If it's not through the night, I'll carry the coffin."
"Who'll bear the pall? "We," said the Wren,
"Both the cock and the hen, we'll bear the pall."
"Who'll sing a psalm?" "I," said the Thrush,
"As she sat on a bush, I'll sing a psalm."
"Who'll toll the bell?" "I," said the bull,
"Because I can pull, I'll toll the bell."
All the birds of the air fell a-sighing and a-sobbing,
When they heard the bell toll for poor Cock Robin.


The weather has been miraculously beautiful the past few days, enough so that I dusted off my windows and pried them open to let the air into this musty room today. Despite the sickness that has crawled into me, I found myself off at the beach yesterday evening with two of my very best friends. We walked along the pier, and at the edge, climbed over the fencing to sit on the rocks and watch the sky bordering twilight. We talked and laughed and I took pictures with my little book camera, and it was cool but the breeze was warm and we didn't mind that our feet got wet even when we went back and walked along the sand. It was dirty from the winter still, and driftwood had been scattered along the shore. There was a dead fish stranded along where was water just barely met the land, and it is just now that I am realizing the poor thing was still there because the seagulls weren't quite back yet.

When it was just about twilight, we went back to my house, and the warm night left me sleepy and content and after a shower to scrub the sand and sunscreen off, I fell asleep fairly quickly though I unfortunately didn't sleep well. It's not too unusual, considering I am, as previously stated, ill.

Recently, I watched Little Children, mostly because Jackie Earle Haley was in it, and it is yet another thing to add to the list of why my heart breaks so frequently. It really is a wonderful story, and a tragic one in how very human all the characters seem. I highly recommend it.

I miss the days when I could breath and move without with odd aching in my bones. It is a want that i cannot satisfy and I am tired and sorry that I ever allowed myself to grow this sick, though I know it isn't exactly my fault. I was very sick before it, and on ten days of the horrible smelling sulfur antibiotics that made me dizzy and sick to my stomach. And once those ended, a day later, this came on, and it will not go away.

I need to get away. This place is suffocating me.

Hello, I am the brokenhearted.

My heart once again aches, and the pain is the sort one can only get from a particularly good novel. I've just finished Peter Pan, and though I know it is a children's book, there is so much of it that I think children can't grasp. Or perhaps that is just my silliness, the way I sobbed at the end when Wendy had grown and Peter had returned and I truly felt as betrayed as he must have. Though, again, this is perhaps just my silliness that makes me see Peter as such the tragic boy.

The weather has grown cold again, which I don't particularly mind. The warmth of the few days brought me to playing about outside with my tiny cousin and my two friends. We drew chalk pictures on the front walk and played tag in the back, running very slowly when the baby (though really, she is a toddler, or whatever four year olds are to be considered) had been claimed 'it'. The running about had left me sunburnt (I am the only fool who can get sunburnt in March in upstate New York) and sore with the aching of laying about all Winter and suddenly running about for hours and hours. I imagine it's how a butterfly must feel when it first spreads it's wings. Like all of it's muscles had been pulled tight, and to move them after so long would be too painful, if the feeling of flying was not so great.

I've all of five hours to sleep before I need to wake for class in the morning, and I don't believe I'll get that much if I attempted to rest now. My sleep is so interrupted lately, and I toss and turn and sigh and fail to find a comfortable position. It's always been a bother for me to fall asleep, hours of laying around with not a wink coming to me, but lately.. it has been more troubling in a way I cannot begin to describe, for I myself can't define it. This insomnia leaves me ragged and exhausted, but I have not yet resorted to taking the pills again, nor anything else I may have, in the past, self medicated with.

Someday, I'll beat it. Someday, I'll lay down in bed, close my eyes, and sleep soundly, lightly, and wake up able to think clearly, the fogging and pain of yesteryear long forgotten.

Perhaps tomorrow will be my someday.