[Alone by Edgar Allan Poe]
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
I've wondered for weeks now... why does ice burn against our skin to the point that it feels that the water dripping from the ice and down my arm is blood. The fire I stand around makes me feel stronger, but in the winter, the fire dies.. but it burns when ice is forcefully placed against your wrist and pushed down, only to get your sheet wet, your hands wet. But the ice melts before it can do so much damage. I guess the less damage part is why the social worker told me to try it. It's not working very well. .