This is a love story
Many a narrative has been lost through the lack of courage to wield a pen. This instrument of mind made flesh, permitting a primal peek into places where only a single soul silently weaves its nest. A mere sliver of ink can hereby force one from behind the safety of a tender reality, beyond the nib and into whatever seductions lay lurid within its scrawls.
Observe the pen: poised and shivering rod, a saturated member, spitting its poisonous seed onto virginal sheets, poking every orifice of the mind with insistent urges, usurping. Its utterances spur the reader on, uncontrollably, toward its set destiny. It indulges itself in its lies (however true they may prove to be.)
But enough worship.
Where am I leading you? By what lure do I demand your audience? Perchance it is to recount the reasons for my suicide, and reveal death’s sweet potions as they replace the blood that drains from me… Ah, Suicide is an end, not a beginning. The fruits of my tale, by nature of experience, can only be savoured by one, for no event and emotion can twice be lived the same.
Nevertheless, I shall taunt you further with this account, this bill of my last mortal fancies…
I have always said that heaven lies in dying without regret and that there is no hell. Alas, I must confess my error. I have since digressed that losing love is a prominent discreditor of the aforementioned. ‘Losing love’ is the master of the voice that now sings my final lullaby. Though I myself have not lost love, I reap the result of only walking in the shadow of true love. This is not to say that I have never tried otherwise. Indeed I have found that spirited pursuit is a prime obstacle when love is your goal.
I might take this time to comfort myself with the privilege of having witnessed the radiance of true love, but my being aches with the desolation of revoked possibilities. It cannot be denied that the closest entity I have seen to God, was this man and this woman. If only you could have been graced as I…
But I must question whether that would be beneficial. Perhaps it would desecrate your ignorant bliss if enlightened with their history. It may show itself to be the very prick of your discomfort. After all, it has provoked my death.
Perhaps it is my gift to take to my resting-place, but sheer selfishness dictates that I should tell all. I have no intention of carrying this toll alone. Loneliness has a new vigour in the presence of memories of the lovers. All illusions are stripped to the core, ideals of fellowship with which we console ourselves are perverted in the light of their experiences. I have come to believe that all our futile attempts are in search of what they had. We find god; we marry; we bear children; we lust…, all sacrifices to the empires of loneliness that negate us.
I know not if I am a better man for having seen what I saw in those two.
So how do I report such an experience? Have I the words to aptly or even satisfactorily relay their story?
I suppose I should stop and ask myself if all this is my own folly. Perhaps a longing in me has put a mask to my observances, tainting them, so as to stage my wishes alone. When I answer myself, though, I know that they were always there, since love first had a name; ‘The lovers in perfection’.
Their names are written on the last grain in my hourglass. They will always be, because I have imagined them so! I sense your discredit to these words, having learned that the lovers were never in flesh. But are not the only true things in our minds?
No matter, you will only believe what you choose.
But know this:
“The keys to the gates of hell are in your hands, itching.”
Ask not with your last breath if you have lived for maybe love is not so far. Your reading of this account is a likely sign of your will to believe that. We all want to believe that love is not too far, and so long as there are those who are not afraid to write, we shall always be reminded of that.
Alas, now I reserve the last of my strength to see the lovers once more…
There.
Without flaw.
And forever…
Observe the pen: poised and shivering rod, a saturated member, spitting its poisonous seed onto virginal sheets, poking every orifice of the mind with insistent urges, usurping. Its utterances spur the reader on, uncontrollably, toward its set destiny. It indulges itself in its lies (however true they may prove to be.)
But enough worship.
Where am I leading you? By what lure do I demand your audience? Perchance it is to recount the reasons for my suicide, and reveal death’s sweet potions as they replace the blood that drains from me… Ah, Suicide is an end, not a beginning. The fruits of my tale, by nature of experience, can only be savoured by one, for no event and emotion can twice be lived the same.
Nevertheless, I shall taunt you further with this account, this bill of my last mortal fancies…
I have always said that heaven lies in dying without regret and that there is no hell. Alas, I must confess my error. I have since digressed that losing love is a prominent discreditor of the aforementioned. ‘Losing love’ is the master of the voice that now sings my final lullaby. Though I myself have not lost love, I reap the result of only walking in the shadow of true love. This is not to say that I have never tried otherwise. Indeed I have found that spirited pursuit is a prime obstacle when love is your goal.
I might take this time to comfort myself with the privilege of having witnessed the radiance of true love, but my being aches with the desolation of revoked possibilities. It cannot be denied that the closest entity I have seen to God, was this man and this woman. If only you could have been graced as I…
But I must question whether that would be beneficial. Perhaps it would desecrate your ignorant bliss if enlightened with their history. It may show itself to be the very prick of your discomfort. After all, it has provoked my death.
Perhaps it is my gift to take to my resting-place, but sheer selfishness dictates that I should tell all. I have no intention of carrying this toll alone. Loneliness has a new vigour in the presence of memories of the lovers. All illusions are stripped to the core, ideals of fellowship with which we console ourselves are perverted in the light of their experiences. I have come to believe that all our futile attempts are in search of what they had. We find god; we marry; we bear children; we lust…, all sacrifices to the empires of loneliness that negate us.
I know not if I am a better man for having seen what I saw in those two.
So how do I report such an experience? Have I the words to aptly or even satisfactorily relay their story?
I suppose I should stop and ask myself if all this is my own folly. Perhaps a longing in me has put a mask to my observances, tainting them, so as to stage my wishes alone. When I answer myself, though, I know that they were always there, since love first had a name; ‘The lovers in perfection’.
Their names are written on the last grain in my hourglass. They will always be, because I have imagined them so! I sense your discredit to these words, having learned that the lovers were never in flesh. But are not the only true things in our minds?
No matter, you will only believe what you choose.
But know this:
“The keys to the gates of hell are in your hands, itching.”
Ask not with your last breath if you have lived for maybe love is not so far. Your reading of this account is a likely sign of your will to believe that. We all want to believe that love is not too far, and so long as there are those who are not afraid to write, we shall always be reminded of that.
Alas, now I reserve the last of my strength to see the lovers once more…
There.
Without flaw.
And forever…