Notebook: Sense of Sorrowful Joy

I was bored of studying today so I went surfing.

I went online to read the works of the the current favourite poet, yes it is Kahlil Gibran again!

I read one of his (I think posthumous) publications. The Madman. It is a collection of parables and poems. It speaks of large and big things that matter like friendship, ambition, wisdom and God. And then it whispers of the smaller things that people think never matter. Like the ants on a persons nose or of the things that the blade of grass on the lawn might say to a falling autumn leaf.

The part on sorrow and joy... is so true. It is like the unveiling of something that you know exist but have never been able to put into words.

It is true that when you are sorrowful, more attention is given. And that you are almost porcelain fragile for as long as sorrow was with you. As if you have gained a reason to be the unreasonable one. And that when you are filled with joy, people are almost resentful of your existence... because you remind them even more of their sorrow. And no one is eager to celebrate your hearts' music.

It is not only the onlookers flaw though. we are all too eager to nurture and grow our sorrow... and when we have joy, we let it fade and die into nothingness... and into a memory.

Some things should really ought to change...

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When My Sorrow Was Born

When my Sorrow was born I nursed it with
care, and watched over it with loving tenderness.

And my Sorrow grew
like all living things, strong and beautiful and full of wondrous delights.

And we loved one another, my Sorrow and I, and we loved the world about
us; for Sorrow had a kindly heart and mine was kindly with Sorrow.

And
when we conversed, my Sorrow and I, our days were winged and our nights were
girdled with dreams; for Sorrow had an eloquent tongue, and mine was eloquent
with Sorrow.

And when we sang together, my Sorrow and I, our neighbors
sat at their windows and listened; for our songs were deep as the sea and our
melodies were full of strange memories.

And when we walked together, my
Sorrow and I, people gazed at us with gentle eyes and whispered in words of
exceeding sweetness.

And there were those who looked with envy upon us,
for Sorrow was a noble thing and I was proud with Sorrow.

But my Sorrow
died, like all living things, and alone I am left to muse and ponder.

And now when I speak my words fall heavily upon my ears.

And
when I sing my songs my neighbours come not to listen.

And when I walk
the streets no one looks at me.

Only in my sleep I hear voices saying in
pity, "See, there liesthe man whose Sorrow is dead."

And When My Joy Was Born

And when my Joy was born, I held it in my arms
and stood on the house-top shouting, "Come ye, my neighbours, come and see, for
Joy this day is born unto me. Come and behold this gladsome thing that laugheth in the sun."

But none of my neighbours came to look upon my Joy, and great was my
astonishment.

And every day for seven moons I proclaimed my Joy from the
house-top--and yet no one heeded me. And my Joy and I were alone, unsought and
unvisited.

Then my Joy grew pale and weary because no other heart but
mine held its loveliness and no other lips kissed its lips.

Then my Joy
died of isolation.

And now I only remember my dead Joy in remembering my
dead Sorrow. But memory is an autumn leaf that murmurs a while in the wind and
then is heard no more.

-Kahlil Gibran, Excerpts from The Madman: His Parables and Poems-