"Why don't you love me? Just for a moment, just for today. Why must I be left pathetic, left dangling at your words? I miss you, even though you've never been mine. You've done more harm than life ought ever do. You never see me, and you leave me longing for just a peek. Quite sad frankly, that I, a man I fancy of a certain quality, have fallen, picked, and packaged into a puzzle of your esteemed design by those crimson lips. Oh, I feel the biting cold rise, for I lack my heart, it's full attention solely on composing pictures of us together. It takes a bit of effort to dream of you, because it ought never happen, though it's always the same dream no matter what. I take your arm, and you mine, and we, in the sunset, simply grow old, and then we die. In those dreams, I would give you fortune, and dreams, I would give you something no one else could, and I do believe this does not need to be a dream. Though I imagine someone else suits your taste, and I just don't. I don't think of you frankly, and I imagine you are far more than I dare compose in a few sequences of dreams and illusions. You seem to have a busy life, and with that, you ought to have a character more colorful, at least more than what my petty mind might imagine. I can be honest here only, for the words never can escape my mind. Truly, you are the sole light in my darkened sky, like an amorous spring sunbeam peeking through the sullen clouds, neither vicious nor pale, just right for the resting of my brooding head. Yet sometimes you are like a bolt of lightning streaking across the emptiness of my heart, perking my lonely, silent heart into a racing gallop. You leave me feeling comforted and alive. Though I ought to forget you, I have some pride, too, at least I assume I do. I may not be handsome, but as a man, I ought to have some pride, even if it means enduring the pain. I should have some pride and leave you. Yet in the end, no matter how many steps away, no matter how much I drink, I keep wanting to think of you. Even in the anger of your ignorance, you rest solely as an existence I must have. Yet in the end, fate is not fair, the tides of life would never allow me to somehow sail to your harbor, and find peace. I have been met with only disappointment with each glance, and expectation, such that were it anything but love, something like attraction, I imagine, any sensible man would have long walked away from you. Yet funnily enough, our short encounters, no more than an hour likely, a few minutes in truth, far from some sort of anything, and considerably inconsequential in light of everything, I still have come to fantasize about you within each moment, within each moment I wish there to be. It is quite truly the greatest humiliation of my poor self. I have come to be so devoted that to imagine you even in the most common, plain moments, those worthless and careless moments without any thought or reason is easy. So I fear what will happen as time goes on. You will have moved on further away, and I am left behind, chained to your shadow, watching you walk away, for I can never escape you."
His hands scribbled roughly against the paper, the corners of his eyes twitching with a joyless pitch of humor, and the frown attached to his face a clear denial of all his efforts.
Stumbling over the lines, he continued to write in a messy handwriting, the words repeating off from the very cumbersome beginnings of his consciousness, not tested, or speculated by the inner reaches of his brain. It had to be traced to paper. For in practice, he had found that anything written tended to be an exaggeration. He swore that it was untrue, a mere lie conjured by the chemicals of his mind. For him, grown on the stories of romance, trailing the dreams of plays, and books, a thing called love was the end, the end of happiness, and the beginning of misery. Yet in the end, spurned love, whatever you wish to hide, is quite often more the beginning of an undying love itself, for it stirs the restless mind into an unsettling performance where you outperform any sane romance.
He finally felt he had written enough, after all his racing heart seemed to calm into peace. Though this comfort did not pass to his restless mind. An endless deluge of thoughts rocked his spirit.
He thought foolishly, "A human ought to fear eternity, it's simply something intelligent. The decay of all you see is clearly frightening. A smart man would fear eternity, yet a man who loves cannot fear eternity. You'd never think it rational or true, but those men whose hands tremble as they hold a young lady they truly feel no regrets at all for the sacrifice. With a bouquet of flowers that had robbed them of a good month's worth of pay and a hungry stomach, they stand stiffly beneath harsh sleet and pouring rain just to catch a glimpse of themselves together. Yet quickly, even their empty stomachs are packed full just from the dream of her smile, which is utter nonsense. Yet it is true. Of course, we cannot forget those delicate, wonderful ladies who startle awake in the night, struck into a song, or dance with their hearts bursting with a blushing dare of romance. That even their shy eyes, fettered by these human rules of sense and sensibility, become possessed by some jolting spirit, and they turn into little sneaks, little crooks, whose main ambition is to make a man just theirs, regardless of cost. They become strange, those in love. I find it awful to even imagine how normal people become so very strange. Yet I suppose it's quite simple too, in essence? Love is born from possession, and possession summons greed, and greed forms misery. Such a trick, such a curse, to become confused and lost. How could I possibly be in love?"
Regardless of what his mind seemed to whisper, to him it was but an exaggeration, a fancy he had taken, that would, like so many other of his attractions, fade away. He would never admit it.
He collapsed into his seat, sprawling out into a slouch, his limbs drooping to the sides. His eyes trembling, who could know what danced inside that madness brewing, but it was surely something fierce for it took his time away. The candle light slowly sank away, and the darkness wrapped the room, and still his eyes never left their place stuck onto the paper. The words seemed to grow under the faint moonlight, turning into long whips that caused him to shiver. A sigh broke through, his hands roughly raised and placed atop his eyes. He ought to have just gone ahead and said it, at this point, not an ounce of strength remained to deny it, but the fact nonetheless was this, he could not admit it without fear wrecking his heart. He couldn't do it, he wouldn't do it, and in the end, it all filled his head with noise.
He laughed, "A man left to the silence, faces the brutality of his questioning mind, what a terrible thing. The drink does no good anymore, I must have developed an immunity, for the noise within continues to grow."
He let the darkness cover him because his visions ascended, forming shapes with colors, almost as if magic were at work. Looking at it took away all his capabilities, rendering him tame.
The gentle tuck of her brown hair, like the sunlight falling in tears. Her smile struck like a heavy blow. It seemed as if there was no escape, that if he reached up into the sky, sundered the clouds, and gazed at the Heavens, then there she would definitely be stirring her fingers in the starry sky, calling the wind and moving the seas with a word or two.
As time passed, he felt his mind come to unravel more and more. Was it the silence, the bitter company of his drink, or was it the taste of love? The moon beams kissed the corner of the window, the silver light like a haunting mist stretched out. The silky treads wove around him, lighting the tips of his fingers, and shining on the pen in his hand. His vision was pulled by a flickering glint, and so he turned his head to his fingers. The tips of his fingers were inked black, and the pen had dripped a black smudge onto him. He stared emptily, and then back to the paper where his long musings expounded. He muttered something, but then he grabbed the paper. He looked at the words and wondered where they were sourced. It was surely a lie. Yet here he was, a mess. Could lies ever force such a reaction?
He sneered, "Hate, and hate, the self is damned to the incompetence of fate, and hence their only salute to salvation is to rage against the truth, for it is so cruel. It is only dutiful for the most extraordinary to clutch onto the most radiant. Ain't it a terrible thing, to live in the pragmatism of nature, to live and die as an animal subject to the recourse of Heaven. Isn't a man something else, though? Dampened by the spell of life, the truth of nature is that all there is. Must I run away, and rage, like an incompetent fool? Why can I not chase and catch what I desire? Is it that I have conceded deep down, and do all I can to run and hide? These words are not a lie; they are my feelings, and though trifling to the cold aloof winds of life, they make my heart beat. So what must I do when I can neither have it nor possess the capacity to catch it? What must I do, God?"
Yet still he could not lament a solution, for his self was now robbed as the weight of his inability grew from his comprehension. His fingers, he could not look away from the ink stains.
He gripped his head, "I am floundering, maddened at the idea that in this inconceivable, troublesome repetition of ideas, whatever may come to be will most certainly be disdained upon. What is a man to do, with their minds racing in doubt and hope, even death seems far more peaceful. That is the unpleasant reality of this world: action seems too improbable, and stillness is so frightening. Driven and cornered into no more than rats, there is no real escape; we are chasing dreams, we are starved of ideals, and turning into demons without principle or goodness. In this endless perpetual dread of existence, is there anything to cherish, and concern oneself with? This world makes us dream, and yet it never allows us a single breath of anything greater than our own birth. That is the sound principle with which we are bred, we can be created, and then tossed aside when troubled. There are so many of us, we have no escape from the hands of reality. To live is to suffer, and to love is to suffer far more. If so, what can the answer be to strive when everything brings pain? It is difficult, for no soul is equal, not in essence, not in corporeal boons, or talents, nothing is fair. That is maddening! Life is benevolent only to the best, and the greatest, and the rest can only be reduced to dust scattered to grow the blessed."
Again and again, built up upon ideals and repulsive thoughts, he crept and crackled. His mind pounding like a drum, his eyes shooting with a red glare. His voice started low, crackling like a wheezy bridge, to a pitched stutter like the muffled cry of a child. A resounding shriek, stunningly frightening.
He wondered with a low laugh, something like a demon, "What was a man else to do but cry. Perhaps terrified, perhaps bemoaning to some deity. In this inconsequential moment, rattled by the melancholy of some bizarre inclination, more so something like love, hate, and disgust, in such a terrible mood. How else are you a lowly human, not the blessed one, the regular, and forgettable? To exist, and want to be stronger, but remain as some child, for we are broken by the endless madness of existence. Nothing could be answered for everything is unfair, there is no chance of change, not to mention there was no question even asked of us, we were forced into this place without even a choice. Who could answer me? Why do I not deserve her? Why does the thought of being worthy elude me? Why do I lie? Why do I make excuses when I love her truly?"
His screams grew, scratching, trying to tear against the expressionless sky above. It was a meaningless and decadent struggle, with no reason or reward, only the glum grief of realization.
The gathering clouds covering the moonlight left him to stagnate.
Yet what could be equal as a solution to his anguish, for nothing was enough for a broken heart.
"What salvation can a loser be granted?" He couldn't help wonder, such a thing, and yet still the indignity of his satisfaction over sweet dreams, that and the hubris of his consciousness were borne again. His hands pressed against his eyes, smothering them, unwilling to gaze at the truth beholden to him.
He finally lifted his head, and in the indefinite lament of Heaven and Earth, he resolved some pathetic conclusion. It was not an answer, nor a solution.
He whispered, "The only song you sing is a song that banishes me from your thoughts. Why am I so consumed, lost within your glistening brown hair coiled in the sunlight? Perhaps all I am is a consumer, a mere watcher. I know not of your raven eyes, what lies within them as they surround the entirety of this weird world. Ancient is your temper, for you show nothing but leave me curious. Lonesome are the nights left without you, they drag on longer than they should, and all because I keep you on my mind. All my dreams come to collect solely around you, whether fortunate or not, I never feel the unease of a nightmare. Simply, I cannot detach the importance you have come to be. Though I question much, I cannot simply stand aside. It's alright, this is love, that is what my heart says. Though no matter how I question or doubt, my heart repeats it, it's alright, this is love. I keep on saying it, and through that, I hope that once upon a dream, no more than that, I see a blooming light stretched across the farthest horizon. Though it is far beyond me, it lies there across the wavering hilltops and mountain crests; it rests there, it is certain. This is not a dream, this is a certainty, though remote! I shall go further than any other, and I shall fetch that sunbeam. Oh, my lovely flower, my Minerva."