Wordsworth, Coleridge, Spenser, Virgil, Shakespeare...There was a time when I understood them all. I would be able to sit in my room or in class or even on the train and their words would just flow through me and I felt enlightened. While others complained about how complex and difficult they were, I sat and read them and I didn't have a problem with it.
That was not too long ago, but somewhere between then and now I lost it. Their words, once elegant and beautiful, now trudge through my head and settle there like mud, thick and immobile. I could sit here and blame it on the poets but at one point I was connected to them. At one point I could travel through their minds as easily as I could walk the street. What changed then? It wasn't their immortal words that suddenly became a foreign scrawl. It has to be me; I just can't grasp their meaning; I can't see their beauty.
Where did it all go wrong? How do I recast the spell they once had over me? What happened to the time when I would read them for pleasure rather than just fulfilling the assignment? Is it still there, sleeping until I somehow reawaken it? Or is gone like the poets themselves?
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