I want you to believe that this was my fate. I want you to believe me a subordinate to a scheming god. How could you not forgive me, then? All of it, all of it, all of it was a whirlpool to a ship, a bottle to a drunk, expediency to a ruler – it drew me in, my love, my beloved, it drew me in and it held and it destroyed me. Inescapable, friend, love, predetermined, it was, beyond my control in the totality, and so and so would you forgive me, could you forgive me?
Oh, ye of generous name, of kindly speech, of pardoning mind! Lesser crimes have been forgiven, lesser criminals reprieved. So make me as five men, make me as ten, make me as a hundred sinners absolved of wrath. Let me bend my knee. Let me genuflect before you. Let me kneel upon the floor, let me scrape my head bloody, let me exclaim as they do, meager servants, that I was but a slave to a higher power. Before the wrath of my master, before the wrath of my god, who was I? Let me sing your praises. Let me abase myself before the most merciful you and beseech a benediction.
Let me beg of you my own absolution. Let me beg of you my own forgiveness. Let my tears fall into the font so that you may baptize me in my own sorrow.
Let me scrape my head bloody and weep a song of mourning.
Would you forgive me, lovely sharp-edged you? Or would you turn me away as you once took me in, by virtue of the love we shared? You would, I think. You would. Politics, all politics; vanities! What happened to our souls, love? A tide; a drink; the easier answer; sucking our lives, our wills, our hearts.
What we were to do, my love. Nothing nothing nothing was to be from ego. All for you, love, all for them! All for all, nothing for none, nothing for vainglory, nothing for the miser me. The wretched as kings and the kings as dust – high ideals! Then we lived, my love. Then we dreamed! But for a dream now. Oh, for a nightmare! Placid black plagues me.
I sleep, and cannot wake. I die, and cannot live. To dream the life-in-death, to dream the promised land, to dream of hope; I am lost in my maze. I am lost in myself.
Perhaps it is too late, and already am I damned. My plague, then, is that of self-delusion. The corruption into which I sink is the rot of my very flesh.