The ability to feel comes as a blessing and a curse. You cannot be blessed without being cursed. To feel is to throw your furiously beating heart open for the world to see. To feel is to be rejected, to be thrown out into a heap of kitchen dust, remnants of what has been swept off the floors, a heap of useless nothing. To feel is to be applauded, by an audience who hears what they want and calls for you to hear them. To feel is to be exhausted, worn out, to keep running even when you're all alone, to pant and slow, gasp and speed on. To feel is to rub the darling buds of May against your cheek, feel the softness. To feel is to die, a death of dreams and imaginations, of darkening expectations. To feel is to be found, finding quiet love in a deep soft chair and serenades. To feel is to know, the depth of knowledge and wisdom, the art of foolishness and trance of beauty. To feel is a beginning, hurtling, chortling in a wisecracking daze towards the end, an inevitable end. We feel. I feel.