Damnit, I Knew This Day Would Come

In my heart of hearts, I knew it couldn't last forever. Never before have I experienced such emotional feelings for another human being. Caring, loving, giving -- he knew exactly what I needed, when I needed it. This was the only man for me, and now he's gone, never to come back. Where do I go from here? I feel lost. I feel lonely.

When I heard the news, I wandered for hours, not knowing what to do next. Life just doesn't feel the same -- it just doesn't feel right. Right now, as I cower in the fetal position, I just don't know if I can go on. Why? I mean, why! Why try to keep living my life knowing that this great -- nay, legendary -- man will never grace my presence ever again. It's worthless -- my life is worthless. He gave it meaning, and now he's gone. Gone forever. Damn whoever did this, damn them to hell!

In times of such despair, I can only speak through the words of one of America's greatest wordsmiths:

NAY, do not dream, designer dark,
Thou hast portray'd or hit thy theme entire:
I, hoverer of late by this dark valley, by its confines, having glimpses of it,
Here enter lists with thee, claiming my right to make a symbol too.

For I have seen many wounded soldiers die,
After dread suffering—have seen their lives pass off with smiles;
And I have watch'd the death-hours of the old; and seen the infant die;
The rich, with all his nurses and his doctors;
And then the poor, in meagreness and poverty;
And I myself for long, O Death, have breathed my every breath
Amid the nearness and the silent thought of thee.

And out of these and thee,
I make a scene, a song, brief (not fear of thee,
Nor gloom's ravines, nor bleak, nor dark—for I do not fear thee,
Nor celebrate the struggle, or contortion, or hard-tied knot),
Of the broad blessed light and perfect air, with meadows, rippling tides, and trees
and flowers and grass,
And the low hum of living breeze—and in the midst God's beautiful eternal right
hand,
Thee, holiest minister of Heaven—thee, envoy, usherer, guide at last of all,
Rich, florid, loosener of the stricture-knot call'd life,
Sweet, peaceful, welcome Death.

-- Walt Whitman

But alas, the stark truth still confronts me. The event has happened, the deed has been done. There is nothing I can do now except wait for the sweet release of death. Because...

Syracuse fires Robinson