In my dreams I have been made no part; they are assuredly made of my imaginations, the things that are the melee of consequence in my waking hours. And yet, it is the damnable ones that I recollect – those of death only, or of its suspense in expectation. Perhaps I am plagued by something beyond my capacities to understand – an entity unbound by limits of which I am familiar. Yet, it makes the bearing of these tolls none the easier, and I believe its wear is beginning to manifest itself in my daily affairs; school in its rite is significantly more arduous than ever it was, and my sociality (though of hardly any basis) is less distinct than at this same time the previous year. I have histories of paranoia – I surmise it is this
that consumes me, yet I am wary to ignore the admonitions of its spark. There must be, as I have always told myself, a reason for which paranoia develops, and while the extremities of it are hyperbolic, I must assume there is attention to be given to its etiology.
Today, it was, I added to my visions of the great assumption of my love. It has
been only a few short weeks since my work began, and my attention has solely been on its subject. I return often to my work in his Requiem to remember the inspirations for which my gospels therein were written. There never lasts a great duration of time before I rediscover the passions that I held of life. I might digress so far as to describe my times as a child, when everything around me was the essence of morality and goodness, not least so I was the trespasser of God. But in those days, so many ages since retired, I was naïve of all the world in its conglomeration of things, such that my visions were obscured by protective kindnesses – my teachers and family, constant and loyal. I could not ever speak the same of friends, for too often did I change my home. Yet all these things gone by, there came a new foundation of happiness – it was the unbreakable love of surrogate family – friends to whom I devoted a closeness none other might begin to replicate. And these
passed my later years in school, until I was uprooted and re-placed in my current home. For all my years of fault and missed successes, I do not begrudge any man, least of he who earned it all in full. I would I had abandoned all my happiness in those weary times but just to secure for a life of average state, my love, to whom I owed indebtedness of every blessing I claimed ownership. It is an easier thing to say in retrospect, and rather than demean myself for hating callous egotism, I am indifferent now to the causes and prospects of life. Moments descend upon me, when by their foreign and estranged natures, seize my intrigue. Yet these too, lapse in so many short seconds, and leave me bereft of companionship again.
Such a day to celebrate an anniversary! The skies around me are of a charcoal black, and their nemeses are fighting through the ominous wall to paste themselves in chalky residue upon the tablet of the firmament. I do not wish to wake to the sound of waterfalls down my bedroom window, yet these are somehow perfect for today. Misery grips me tighter than the nights I laid in mourning, those nights succeeding his passing. And all about me is a gentle still that is so eerie and foreboding, I dare not question its sanctity. And so I lay, dormant by disguise in deterrence of intruders, breathing painfully the air I would he had yet still to breathe. My thoughts are always of him these mornings, yet now I feel it must be something more – in libation. There is, I contradict myself, no one left to please. For if God had heard my prayers all the while I loved him in life, He would assuredly have done
the greatest thing I asked of Him. Further meditation and persistence would be idle – only thankful recitatives were required. Yet, then alone, I could not muster strength to abide their redundancies for moments more, and I stopped. Such a feeling does possesses me as I think I heard him write of – that choking hand of depravity that utterly cripples the senses, save the one that is torture the most – a horrid, perfect misery that emotion is enslaved to. And during these moments, when ‘alone’ is the word most familiar, I am wont to think of my dismissal where I lay, but only to relieve myself of its unparalleled afflictions.
Why do I continue my lamentations? I return to my writings to console me, as though its offered catharsis will prove remedial. I am often disappointed in its promises, yet it is all I have to give myself. To feel such pity for my own condition is beyond others’ attention; I never expected it. Yet, I think of things so many times that those same people, foreign to me in worlds beyond my experience, might well understand. Empathy is a rarity among them, and yet I seek it out – not for its comforts as most do, but instead for the unraveling of its very nature. I am empathetic of myself, it is true, yet I do not seek others to console
me and sympathize with my losses. I imagine there are many who have endured far greater suffering that I could even conceive. I would never ask of them counsel, and would never assume to know their stations. Thus, my crusades are not for acquisitions but for definition. Why is it he would love me and empathize with my faults? Why? When he, of all creatures I have hence known, endured the greatest of earth’s malignancies? It is something, as of yet, I have not begun to comprehend, nor have found inkling of. My writing continues as a source for premonition in my subsequent days – hoping constantly to be uplifted to new thoughts that will yield a resolution for those things of which I have constantly sought explanation.
How often I now turn to my journals for reassurances! I have better news to transcribe today, than the days preceding: I met during the institution of my classes, a peculiar sense of oneness. It had never occurred to me that there might be some sort of equal subject as was I – one to whom capitulation in such things as death were topics of weakness and misconception. Yet, he presented me with these things in a soft and simultaneously candid light. He offered me explanation of these things as though they were his comrades – soulbrethren he had attained through the unfortunate windings of life. He spoke of love mostly, and of its curses that are unseen until love itself dissipates through misappropriated acts. He told me also of its awe and of its power, that one is blinded to even in emersion. I, unshook,
retained my discipleship of him, and listened intently to everything he told me. It
was true I had found sparse confidantes – that those I truly considered to be understanding of my situation were the ones who were the most beloved unto he I loved. And these were the closest to my principles of sorrow, yet I required something immediate to pacify my boiling sensations – that to which I could not give a name. And in that, I had found this unnamed entity – he who had a classification, but of which subject it is best he remain anonymous. I wish us to remain in constant contact, so just that I may find the best means of enduring the time that is the panacea for my indescribable fears and loathings.
My distractions have left me no opportunities for writing as of late, and I have been remiss in my entries. Yet yesterday evening, I took up the occasion to write for him a post-humus dedication. It is, perhaps, a means of libation that will prove more useful than its realism suggests. And yet, I do not wish to heighten my hopes that in time, the dreams and tangents contained therein will attain fruition. I merely enter this stationery as a record of my inner-considerations.
When I have dreams that I may cease to be,
When stow-a-ways, benign to their afflictors, rot and perish,
When milk-maids strong about conviction, release a wanton aspiration
for the betterment of things,
When preachers are made fathers,
When mothers are made laborers,
And all the world seethes with counter-parts of wisdom –
These are the days when I will cease to be.
When Demeter rests her head in hibernation, and stalks and vines
protrude in sadness,
When harlequins are kings, and men of royalty are made the feast of slaves,
When history and all enthrall run dry, as the Nile beneath the tasking sun,
When cadence of a life is left depraved, and runs inconstancy
forever to a human soul –
These are the days when have I ceased to be. (6)
It is the fourth month, and my soul-guardian has abandoned me for more personal things: he was, I think, more torture to me now than reclusion might have been. Our talks, upon revisitation, were terse and formed in no great philosophy or reason – they were in my speculations, something so obvious to grasp, I have only myself to blame in not perceiving them. For of him, that which gave light to darkness, created such a profound sense of loyal reverence, I could not think he would wish ill of me, at least not so to care – which, as such a true and honest thing it stands, he mustered antidote for guilt, and proceeded without thought. It is best I find. I will discover more in my own interpretations, than of those strange citizens I happen upon in fortuitous discoveries.
(6) Reference: “When I Have Fears That I May Cease To Be,” John Keats