From Astrophil and Stella

Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,
That the dear She might take some pleasure of my pain,
Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,
Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain,
I sought fit words to paint the blackest face or woe,
Studying inventions of fine, her wits to entertain,
Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow
Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburned brain.
But words came halting forth, wanting Invention's stay;
Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's blows,
And others' feet still seemed but strangers in my way.
Thus great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes,
Biting my trewand pen, beating myself for spite,

"Fool," said my Muse to me, "look in thy heart and write."

~Sir Philip Sydney, Astrophil and Stella Sonnet 1

Still, even in the 1590s, there was great distress surrounding how to express love. I have such desire to write, to show how deep and beautiful my love is. Love is not some sociologically constructed term. It has been around since the beginning of the cosmos, since the creation of Man and his beautiful counterpart. It has been confined in the cage of the heart, seeping out through the imprisoning bars in forms of words and songs and dance and paint. But they're only expressions of a greater malignant being, growing beneath the chest, clogging airways.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometimes declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall Death brag thou wand'rest in his shade
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st.
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

~William Shakespeare, Sonnet 18

Shall I compare thee to a summer day? Not even comparisons can capture this something that you are to me. Shakespeare felt it. And he believed the only way to capture the beauty was to make it eternal, to put it in black ink and have it show up centuries later in some insignificant girl's blog. Whoever's hand this sonnet fell into is always going to be remember, we'll always be able to try to grasp her beauty and the love that she experienced. What do I have to make this eternal? What methods do I use to describe love? Has anyone come close. Ironically, this feeling that is encapsulated inside of me has chained all of humanity. It creates the most beautiful art, and yet slowly destroys the artist. We are nothing to love, we have no arms against it.