| Subject: Thoughts of a Summer's Eve |
Author:
Raven
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Date Posted: 13:57:10 08/02/06 Wed
(Note that these thoughts are my own – I would have scribed them in poetry, perhaps, but they have found themselves too dull to tell in verse, nor would they fit in any part of my novels)
… mine eyes have grazed the bleak pavement o’too many streets, a gaunt welkin have I grown into, yet as Antonius Block, I say this without bitterness or self-reproach – I know it is the same for all.
But hear the herald of plague: I am sick to death of this world, yes, more then I ever cared to admit. To the knowing mind, positivity is a deception that can not itself be circumvented. Every sight and every sound leads to the contemplation of fading visions and dying dreams –thus stems the scarlet bloom on our graves. Beaudelaire wanted us to close the curtains. Eerie Cioran has passed but ten years ago, in perfect serenity, yet for three score years he killed himself vying to tell us how futile it all was – rather that we watch the clouds roll by, said he. But did we listen? Still he did fade without a sigh. And the world roared on, as if to mock his echo. Moreso, the grains of golden sand crept through Allan Poe’s trembling hands and he wept, and his Raven still stands atop the chamber door – perched above us and grinning.
And I tell you now, visions fade and dreams die – believe it or not, the metaphysical meets empirical experience in this, my decadent reasoning: I wish it were different, but that wish is eroding with time. Somehow, I am to believe that hope is an adequate notion… yet how? If my lovers wrong me once and leave me thence (cruel as they all were), at least I can forgive them, or forget them, which is better. Nay, hope lends a caress with one hand and bleeds my wrist with the other – for aeons it goes and I grovel to its deliverance – uncaring, as the day rises, that I will be humbled and betrayed ‘ere we are done and under.
When dusk finally comes, my breath is colder then last eve’s ever was, and it is wicked and fitting: we humans (especially us poets, us cuckold imbeciles) are not of an ageless substance nor can we sustain successive blows, especially not by the same hand, be it gloved to match the seasons – the strikes are fell and fierce – and if we laughed at the rising hints of hypocrisy, now in our mid-twenties we grovel at Fate’s black breast and our guts twist with disgust and wanton retribution.
“So what!?”, I’ll scream. “Love this world? Make peace with the hidden blade? Kiss the hilt and call it mine?! The streets are clogged with the rot of this earth, its homes are cold and wet with the tears of a million forsaken lovers, in its alleys friends and comrades fleet the wanion moon of summer – and I, I the reluctant nihilist should be made, nay, coerced in a semblance of serenity, some ceasefire with the blatant hypocrisy of my torment? Nothing was weighed and chosen and conceived – all love and friendship simply festered ‘twixt some maggoty keg, spoiled in an hour and yet I, I should consent, praise the devious instant that spelled my despicable – nay, my pathetic demise?
Anon! I shall not relent. I shall not recant.
Quoth Filippi:
“Carnage you have written on my chest. And Carnage it is.”
Hist! Let Summer croak and choke and haunt us no more: we are the children of a cruel deity, blackly clad: existence has failed us in all save insistency,
Be not appeased, reconciled ne’er – but hark, lest thee forget: worry not, rejoice in the burning blood of our timely vengeance, sleep tight and dream of a frozen Autumn…
…which we must claim as our own.
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