True-Nine-Of-Spades

Drawn towards pain the heart beats faster than ever played the piano's strings.
In separation music falters, in chasms echo an angel's wings.
Without a sound the memories of music plays in vacancy.
Without a voice four rooms stand hollow devoid of all but company.

"The future belongs still more to the heart than to the mind. To love is the only thing which can occupy and fill up eternity. The infinite requires the inexhaustible."

Victor Hugo - Les Miserables

We often wonder what might have been. Probably more often than we wonder what could be.
There is no reason for this, no good can come of it, no changes can be made that might affect what has already happened.
And yet the memory consistently returns to the wishes of years past, to plans that have since changed, to loves lost and opportunities squandered.

Why must we do this to ourselves? From what deep seated desire for punishment does this need to remember and imagine different outcomes spring from?

No comfort can ever be found in wishes that have already passed us by.

It is when we turn to look forward that hope leaps from the shadows to take the place of vain and empty wishes.
Suddenly each opportunity grows and changes in an ever living entity, bringing new plans and wishes into view with a vibrancy unmatched by the most vivid dream of the past.

And then, when all seems to be working together for the best and the pain from years past seems somehow not so painful;
When happiness has been released and content has taken its place,
Love returns, a warmth forgotten, a pain familiar and new.

Some say that love is nonsense - I tell you it is no such thing. For weeks and months it is a steady physical pain, an ache about the heart, never leaving one, by night or by day; a long strain on one's nerves like toothache or rheumatism, not intolerable at any one instant, but exhausting by its steady drain on the strength.

And yet... We cling to it, hoping that it will never end, and praying for the day that it will change from the suffering we so enjoy into a bliss that we only half believe to exist...

Oh, how beautiful a thing, this love.

In times of yore a "blog" was known as a Beef-LOG, it wasn't shortened until the late 20th century when the advent of the interweb allowed one to write out-of-proportion and mostly blasphemous literary iterations of the highlights or dourness of one's existence.
Beef-LOG's were used by a ship's captain or steering bitch to track the movements of the elusive sea-yack also known as the aquatic whale as it were.  Being that paper was only an affluent man's anus cleaning medium, salted beef logs were used to scribe the aforementioned travels of said mentally retarted and unkempt sea mammals.
As history continued its course, the captain (or steering bitch) would often find himself scribing personal details and memoires of ass-pirate encounters, equatorial loaf toad sightings, and crewmate autofellatio suicides among other more personal memoires.  Later yet, men beyond the ranks of sea captains (or steering bitches) were known to collect said salted beef logs and standardized the format to which a log was written, by applying a standard of depth, width, girth and so on.
Upon the advent of the Chineese, paper became more proliferate as the increase in traffic citations and mathematical scratch paper was necessary to accommodate the growing race.  The medium to which Beef-LOGs were written was taking a turn towards the future!  Shortly after, Japan separated from China via island, and the computer was created via the Asian integration of wires, TV's, calculators and small dogs.
And thusly, after Bill Gates built the internet and connected every computer via science, Beef-LOGs or "blogs" now rule as the preferred electronic platform of the socially inept, low-self esteemed and nerd.