Apostrophe

Here is the time when I find myself brimming with infinite regret of the past... The past? What is time? ... Uriah, Uriah ... she pursued me for so long ... So long? What is a year when compared with a life? ... But my soul, I spoke the truth. That was my folly. What is love? 'Tis not the meaning but the word. To me, when I say "I love" it does not, no, it cannot mean what she says when she says "I see in you my Truth." It is an impossible predicament, this void of meaning when we try so hard to communicate. Her meaning is as clear to me as my imagination will allow. My meaning is lost within the imperfection of these words. I say "I love, but ..." ... "I love" is all she hears. God damn this mouth of mine! God damn this soul and heart I call my own. Love, truly it was the curse for woman after Eden became a lost meaning; for God said "your desire shall be for your husband" and today there are no husbands, only men and women, the angst-ridden and the idealists together in one being. Desire, that damnation of the knowledge of evil and good. Before desire, all relation was companionship, was friendship, and nothing more. Gone are the days when a woman could be a friend. Gone are the days when a man could be a friend unto a woman. Here are the days of the currency of sex. Here are the days of the bartering of lust for lust; an eye for an eye and all we are are corpses, exchanging pieces of our hearts for an experience of that infinite we used to call the soul. Uriah, Uriah ... How can I tell thee? I love thee not. I cannot help but love this thing that is your soul, this mirror which so clearly allows me to see my own soul, my own mirror. To talk with you is to drown within my self; to cleanse the doors to perception; to feel what it is to know. I love this in you, and lament that I love nothing more: myself. You say that I am different; yea, you say that I contain within my soul something which is wholly unique, wholly individual, wholly of its own and nothing else. You call this beauty; you call this creation; you call this poetry. I say to thee, in this apostrophe which your absorbing eyes cannot now see, for you are not here, you are not now, you are not now real to my soul, I say that which you call this Poetry is a curse! It is abomination, this "ability" to create. It is the crown of thorns upon my every-dying soul. To create, oh can't you know what crucifixion this is? Beauty is the transience, the temporality, the passing, dying nature of all things. This curse is beauty; this curse is poetry. This driving need to create is the starvation of my soul. If I could not somehow create, this curse would have been the end of me long ago. If I could not create, the hollowness of life would have driven me to madness long ago. If I could not create, my life, by my own hand, would have been ended long ago; my heart would have bled black ink as the pen lodged in my heart would then forever flow, and the dying words, in scarlet nightshade on the page would read, like the only sadness of the sea that would exist,1

"Nihil novi2

Sub solo3

Est."4