Existential Nihilism

In the garden I had come to confess. I didn't bring flowers for a lover. I didn't bring earnestness for a funeral. Rather, the moon shone through the leaves in white specter, or light playing as a waterfall through the greenery. And it was cold, and I could feel that it was cold because I had sat at the alter of life.1

In the shadows rested a wrought iron bench, feathered with good wood and handsomely kept for all intents and purposes. At it's feet the little stone walkway competed against overgrowth and curved past in descent of lush darkness. It was here I sat alone, and only then would she come to me, while sleeplessness whispered into my ear.2

"Are those for me, Henry?"3

The flowers I was holding- I couldn't remember what I had brought and I couldn't rightly tell, so thick was the nighttime. "Well, I suppose you could have them. A bouquet isn't always what it seems, though."4

"You're very handsome in your tuxedo, Henry, and certainly the evening has... brought a special kind of warmness to me." The way she tilted her features, so fine, so graceful and soft- the way the moonlight danced in her large brown eyes; she didn't have to disturb a minute anything to convey a substantial something, because it would be grotesquely unsubtle by comparison. 5

"... Please just stop."6

Concern upon her face would crush a man unfamiliar. As it was, she spoke gently, "This needn't be difficult for you. I've never forced you to do anything, Henry, but I do give endlessly."7

"I know, and I am grateful for what I have been given. But it can go no further, Syvle. I've come out here in finality."8

A melancholy creature began calling out in the night with melodic whistles intended for some recipient unknown, perhaps even to itself. The sweet bitterness of nature, crisp and fresh like a clear stream running, was an aroma that occupied the everywhere.9

"Henry, no. When it peeled God from you, I made do. When it took empathy, I worked with that as well... this last time, I can make it work, just afford me the chance, just afford me the time!" I felt warmness envelope my hand as she took it into her own, which was as intricate as marble sculpture, "I can show you where you need to go!"10

I stood up and immediately wrested my hand free of her grasp, and the act felt spiteful. From the band that maintained the flowers' form, I liberated my utensil, a small hilted knife that could have once drawn blood for the Lord's work but now found faculty in my own. In the space where I had once been sitting, where the shadows fell, I gently placed the bouquet. "Now you can have it."11

She was always so childlike, and in that manner she lifted the bouquet into her own lap with great fascination and timid smile.12

"Syvle, I suspect you're here because I must confess for catharsis, this life's last stand against my machinations. If there is any relief to be found, it would be echoing certain words into the creation of the evermore, if it indeed exists."13

The flowers tilted away, so as to expose more of herself to me in rapt attention. I turned to regard her in earnest, at which point I saw her gazing upon me with enough love and concern to blaze a glorious dawn. Emotion overtook me, and my features clenched, and my hands clenched, and chest clenched and I had to force my voice which felt like it was bringing burning fire into the full tightness of my face, "I don't understand how to live."14

Wetness came to her cheeks as my body, broken and face with it's own demise, began to fold under great weight. "Must you know everything? Why not be content to just be?" Pleading resonated throughout her voice. Two delicate wrists brought themselves to her eyes to brush away the tears- children use their wrists to brush away tears. "Why not be content to sit at the altar of life?"15

And beyond the scope of the weapon in my hand I could see an empty place on the bench next to her, in the darkness. 16