The days are long; the wounds are deep. Fate; the last scene flashes. I try to understand, but I cannot. I am not capable of such treachery, not without cause. I am in a corner flanked by what I discern and what I suffer. Two worlds collide, ever engaged in combat.
Tis true the purest idea of love is a mockery. Yet, it was the solitary expedition that drove me; my objective, my longing, ever before me and never within reach. A fool’s dream. Do I ever learn? What hope is present, but none? I speak but the words come again negated.
Cowards tell tales. They dread to confront realities of emotional famine and undistinguished maturity. Cowards conceal behind the masquerade of their treachery; powerless, disinclined to deal with the inhibition of self-sacrifice and acquiescence. Is it pride? Is it a callused spirit? What beats in the heart of a man that he should crave? And at the highest charge? I beseech to know. There is an answer, but the liar imparts none.
What is a liar to him self? How can he slumber when night draws and all he has is he? Does the indignity and remorse remain silent? Can the impostor submerge them so deep? When did his honor fail? Or did he in no way ever acquire it? Does he not suffer for others as himself? These answers have eluded me.