The pen is stubborn, sputters–hell!
Am I condemned to scrawl?
Boldly I dip it in the well,
My writing flows, and all
I try succeeds. Of course, the spatter
Of this tormented night
Is quite illegible. No matter:
Who reads the stuff I write?
- Friedrich Nietzsche, "The Pen is Stubborn", The Gay Science
I am nothing, my soul laments. Woe! Woe! Woe! All of their voices, their joyful, condemning voices, fill my heart with isolated sorrow. What I would give to silence their joy! To escape these cold white lights and burrow into warm, quiet darkness. My chest bleeds tears, my tears bleed dry. Your beauty is what pains me. Your beauty which I cannot kiss, embrace, become one with. You are so, so far from me. This is why I hate you. Because I love you. Particulars? Nay. Essence? Perhaps. But the problem lies in me, or rather, beyond me. I have lost some fundamental piece of my being. Drowned in the ether since the day of my birth. You are an elusive specter, the fading trails of your fulfilling passion the source of my raging sorrows. I do not know what you are. Nor do I hold any longer that I can catch you before I lose my breath. Perhaps these writings are my attempt to grasp you. Perhaps, if you are human, you will read them and present yourself. An absurd wish. An absurd, unhealthy wish. I think that if I am ever to survive, I must learn to live with this half-heart I have clawed from my tragic birth. I must learn to live contently rather than happily.
But what use is contentment if it hampers my pursuit of growth? Peace? Bah! Do we not love the spoils of war? Is the cold not comforting, in its bitter freezing way? Does the rain not cool, even when it sprays you with dirt? This is my curse: my discontentment shall always be my contentment. For what else can I do beyond thrusting myself forwards? Shall I sit in meditation, await my empty fate like green leave the autumn? Or shall I charge my way forwards, denying that end until I am no longer capable of moving? Wishful men hold wistful thoughts. But how, even if I know it does me ill, can I do anything else? Hope, I do not preach. I would wish that beast on no one. But neither do I preach surrender. Perhaps a solemn resignation, but a passionate sprint towards triumph.
But what use is contentment if it hampers my pursuit of growth? Peace? Bah! Do we not love the spoils of war? Is the cold not comforting, in its bitter freezing way? Does the rain not cool, even when it sprays you with dirt? This is my curse: my discontentment shall always be my contentment. For what else can I do beyond thrusting myself forwards? Shall I sit in meditation, await my empty fate like green leave the autumn? Or shall I charge my way forwards, denying that end until I am no longer capable of moving? Wishful men hold wistful thoughts. But how, even if I know it does me ill, can I do anything else? Hope, I do not preach. I would wish that beast on no one. But neither do I preach surrender. Perhaps a solemn resignation, but a passionate sprint towards triumph.
