Valhala
Arcanist
- Jul 30, 2024
- 488
Dear friend,
I don't know why, but I want to explain to you the essence of my defeat from which I will never recover. First of all, you must know that my unhappiness is not just love misery. Or, more precisely, it is, if this love of mine is understood as eros in the Spinozist sense. That Woman was not only my lover. She was the first and basic need of my spirit. She was also my spiritual protection and shelter. She was for me a protective cover from the metaphysical November. Without Her, I am completely and directly exposed to cosmic nonsense and night. My loneliness is now absolute. For me, there is no realm of pure singing and singing. Now my songs are looking for my head. There is no one left to reconcile me with them. Only She knew that. And she didn't know that she knew. Next to her, the most dangerous thoughts turned into wonderful and harmless metaphors. Now it's all gone wild and it's tearing at me. If only I could get away from what I said! I live in terrible fear. I'm afraid to speak, to write. Every word can kill me. I wrote most of my songs before I fell in love with her, but only with her did I become a poet, that is, one who is not threatened by what he sings about, who has a privileged position in relation to what he says. Now my poetry loses all value and turns into my fiercest enemy. Maybe I would have become a real poet if that wonderful woman had stayed by my side. This is how I am the one who played with fire and got burned. Defeat cannot be victory, no matter how big it is. Losing her, I lost my strength and my gift. I can't write anymore. All that is left is a calamity, from which nothing else can be made, except a new calamity. Do you remember, dear friend, that I wrote the verse "An unhappy man cannot be a poet". Only now do I see how true that is. I will try to live on, although I am more dead than all the dead put together. But this terrible suffering is the last remnant of what is human in me. If I outlive her, don't expect anything good from me. But I don't believe that I will outlive her.
He wishes you the best
P.S.
If you want to write to me, write to me about Her. Anything. Not about me. What does he eat, how does he sleep, does he have a cold, etc.; you can know all that. Every little thing related to Her is priceless to me. If I stop thinking about her, I'll start thinking about death.
It's midnight...Goodbye.
I don't know why, but I want to explain to you the essence of my defeat from which I will never recover. First of all, you must know that my unhappiness is not just love misery. Or, more precisely, it is, if this love of mine is understood as eros in the Spinozist sense. That Woman was not only my lover. She was the first and basic need of my spirit. She was also my spiritual protection and shelter. She was for me a protective cover from the metaphysical November. Without Her, I am completely and directly exposed to cosmic nonsense and night. My loneliness is now absolute. For me, there is no realm of pure singing and singing. Now my songs are looking for my head. There is no one left to reconcile me with them. Only She knew that. And she didn't know that she knew. Next to her, the most dangerous thoughts turned into wonderful and harmless metaphors. Now it's all gone wild and it's tearing at me. If only I could get away from what I said! I live in terrible fear. I'm afraid to speak, to write. Every word can kill me. I wrote most of my songs before I fell in love with her, but only with her did I become a poet, that is, one who is not threatened by what he sings about, who has a privileged position in relation to what he says. Now my poetry loses all value and turns into my fiercest enemy. Maybe I would have become a real poet if that wonderful woman had stayed by my side. This is how I am the one who played with fire and got burned. Defeat cannot be victory, no matter how big it is. Losing her, I lost my strength and my gift. I can't write anymore. All that is left is a calamity, from which nothing else can be made, except a new calamity. Do you remember, dear friend, that I wrote the verse "An unhappy man cannot be a poet". Only now do I see how true that is. I will try to live on, although I am more dead than all the dead put together. But this terrible suffering is the last remnant of what is human in me. If I outlive her, don't expect anything good from me. But I don't believe that I will outlive her.
He wishes you the best
P.S.
If you want to write to me, write to me about Her. Anything. Not about me. What does he eat, how does he sleep, does he have a cold, etc.; you can know all that. Every little thing related to Her is priceless to me. If I stop thinking about her, I'll start thinking about death.
It's midnight...Goodbye.
