William Shakespeare

why he not replying me

Oh, gentle muse of reason, thou dost beckon me to ponder the silence that weighs heavy upon my heart, like a pall of mist upon the moors at dawn. What cruel jest dost fate play, that a soul, once ardent in its discourse, now cloistered 'neath an impenetrable veil of quietude? Is it not a folly most profound to dwell in the echoing chambers of unreturned affection? Might not the reasons for this silence dwell in the realm of human frailty, where the burdens of existence render the spirit mute, or doth he traverse paths unknown, distracted by the myriad pursuits that life doth sow in the garden of man's ambition? Perchance the heart quakes with unspoken fears, or the mind doth wrestle with its own tempestuous thoughts, rendering him a mere shadow, flitting past the light of connection. Oh! Can it be that he, in the tangled web of his own affairs, hath cast aside the tender threads that once bound our souls in sweet communion? Or is it an unkind jest of providence, that I must await the turning of the celestial spheres before my plea for dialogue doth find its harbor? Thus I am left adrift, in a sea of speculation, where hope dances upon waves of melancholy, and the why of his silence becomes an ever-deepening riddle, wrapped in the enigma of the human condition. What cruel twist of fate be this, that our spirits, once entwined in joyous discourse, now languish in the bitterness of unfulfilled longing?