Burden Bereaved Lost in a solemnity riveting in its interminable turpitude, a man’s intellect when not of the base variety is condemned to such everlasting torture. He knows reality and as an old pair of friends knows well everlasting derision. Such is my case, now, missing that which is essential, which is rare. Has been the case all along, ever since elementary days where a mature mind buys hatred from the souls of the fellow young, a malady few of them will part from in their progressive state until they themselves open their eyes. That which cannot be understood, is there not a general consensus that this abomination of greater mental capacity should perish in forced silence? There is such a decree of the public, and Chamfort, Dupin and I are one in a presumption in that which is general thought. Such is my sentence to understand man and woman in their obstinate, closed-minded abjectivity. Though do I believe myself above it all? Am I not prone to the same weak mortalities that befit a man? Indeed I am, but even in youth, I am aware of what I do; ability learned of sight, hearing, and thought well developed, and forced to do so both by outside action and nature. I am object of molding to my own thought, and it, this hand of fate which I cannot severe, never ceases, and never wanes in its furthering the development that horrible sickness that which accompanies, Sorrow. Those that I love bereave me, finding that my intellect makes me different, and so they can no longer love me for my intellect. That which draws curiosity condemns me wholly to wallow in their remarks. Such is my case since youth, and in youth I still reside, surrounded by a world bottling itself in, deeper and deeper. Even this damned anecdote is written upon the mode of man’s self-destruction! Self-destruction if not seen, if not caught; a world of information, of creativity lies in technology and the furthering of it, but look in ghastly, haunting horror how it is ill-used! Conditioning: speak of that word “conditioning” condition the conditioned to not believe they are conditioned and some will believe and some will not, and yet all are conditioned either way. There is no “unconditioning”; there is only a “reconditioning”, lest human will be ripped forever from the body which is canted within. It is in sole realization that I am locked in such mortal terror. Such is why I fear now, for the sake of those I love. It is in their conditioning that they despise me. Speak the word “intellect” and those stuffy, “ugly” old men in history books or the modern serial killer comes into the common human mind. An unwonted lover once loved but now replaced by a weaker mind is a stalker, and can be nothing more. Did I not mention that the human mind is prey to such abjectivity; blind obstinacy? A revolutionary is made mince-meat of therein for what is known cannot be questioned, yet the basis of all that is good is based in question. Is conformity being the Christian, or is conformity being the Atheist who must question all that is believed, but not question why he does not believe? Is revolution distrusting that which governs, or is it wholly not damnable to bring into reason why what is must be conflicted in a certain manner? The answer may lay in the mean or in either or in both. The answer is precisely what I seek as I now contemplate the singular record of one whom I am not sure if victim or torturer. Many I have known before like her, but in her novel intelligence I am compelled to think myself a fool that has been tricked, or is it she whom is the one being tricked? The case in which I speak of is one Diade Ignes. Her beauty, in an age of set desires, is her own; an ancient beauty which neither needs remedy nor aid to catch the eye and be lovely, it simply, naturally is. Her intelligence, as I have before inscribed, is of a not rare kind, but compelling in its encompassing of all that is studied, she makes small work of tests and essays by a sheer determination which dominates the intelligence, an furthers the production. She once loved me, but of this love there is but my own affection for her, thus a stalking. Though I have never sought her out physically, made my presence overbearing since our parting, she feels compelled to yell “Stalker” and “Court” simply because she is well acquainted with the base type of human, so meager and pitiable in their conditioned wanting of flesh. No, what she refuses to connect, though I make evidently clear, is that I care for her. It is now crime to care for another, wish no ill-will upon them! She acts as though she is one of Huxley’s, and Alpha or Beta she may be, calling forgiveness an unwanted advance. What need be there for forgiveness? In my foresight, in my caring for her as we were together, I let her go for the sole purpose of her being happy. Two forces would have ripped her to pieces, these two forces of which I was one party, and an invidious former love was another. The two forces would have ripped her apart, I say, because it was my objective to make sure such was not the case. I wanted her, after all, I loved her, but more over all, I wanted her happiness, and in so, sold my own for hers. Now here is the commonality of the reaction, the fact in which she despises me and hands herself wholly to the other. And do I not understand why she does this? The former was a scorning lover and much what her palpitating, lively young heart wanted. Once good purpose was seen in her again, the former leapt to the chance to have what he wanted. I cannot blame her for her servitude to a lesser master. Lesser can be said for many reasons but mainly for the fact she throws herself at him like he is one, and the fact I consider myself never the master of her will. Know well this one point: should he repeat mistakes past made, she will easily be kept none the wiser, and so stay in her putted place as pet which is stroked upon coming home, after the self-proclaimed owner has returned from the kennel. I can very well hate her for her derision, but don’t I understand it? I do not despise her for harm which she brings me, for perhaps I am the one far too lost in obstinacy to refuse that she could very well control far more than of what I speak. All these flaccid details are of the usual variety in that they can be compared to many ended relationships. The singularity, I’m afraid, lies in me. The fact I can let her go. The fact I can understand both the devil and angel inside her. The pity I have for a fate she is yet unaware of, and once aware of, she will find herself well dug in to the Earth and a shovel in her hand. Mercy bear upon that hand that blade will not arrest at the opposite wrist and draw from it a wire of life that is let by so many troubled in the contemporary age. That is my sole worry. Not that she will never love me again, though I wish with all my power can sustain an my soul can bear, but what method of near self-disposal she will render upon herself when footing she finds so solid is made all at once intangible. She will endure pain for pain’s sake as she always has, I fear, and it is this fear which is the greatest. It is greatest because I have no power to control it. Were she to speak and render rapid Hate useless, I feel I could save her from near-demise or total rupture in all. The pain, the empathy, I can feel the blade in my hand and feel it tear at my skin, I can sense the sensations vibrating through my thus damaged veins, and yet all is phantasm. Never have I known the feel of such self-derision that has caused me to harm myself as she has done in the past, but still I can feel her past pains and the ones yet to come! They haunt my mornings, my evenings, and my life in an incessant mockery of my ineptitude to keep them from happening! How I care for her though she cares not for me! It is an all-engulfing pain that is invisible to her eye and so she calls it a mental illness. Such like her I have never known before and how wrongly she calls this other man her paramour. Were he any other man I could rid myself of her memory and be done of this terror forever, but I cannot. She hates me most for pointing out his flaws which she listed herself! Maddening even more is the question: If she did not want me to think of this former man as nothing less than the Devil, why- O Why! - was I given so much red paint for his portrait?! All that has been listed is insufferable and in many cases, precisely what she does to me now, and she claims her worst fault is an overbearing amount of emotion. If this be the case, how can she commit the same derisive act she bore upon a mortal spirit all too similar to her own? How can she deprive me of word when word is all I seek, and her comfort secured? The answer lies only in supposition. Is it greed? Is it protection of either myself or her? I suppose the latter because this brute that is the former man is of the oafish quality which displays itself prominently as an alpha of its species, yet will grow into detestable ineptitude for its lack of thought. And yet, despite this hard truth or indeed because of it, she persists in her love for him. Oh silent monster that is jealousy! Oh cruel demon that is fate! Cannot I save one good-natured soul from the corruption that lies within us all? Are You that insufferable? That wave of time how horrid is the state in which you swell and wrap around me! Will you sift and return to me what has been lost, or will closure be lost in your thunderous and merciless rolls forever?! I try to keep my head above the water as best I can. I do accost the ocean of misery in all its horrors, and pray for the capacity which is my burden to bear, can truly be received by another, and not weigh heavily upon her shoulders. Then, perhaps, we both will be spared that turbulent wave.
