A Tale of Clandestiny:

A Tale of Clandestiny:

One grows not by pruning but by watering. So it follows that any one who challenges me to shed my values absolves herself in like kind of any right to judge of me. If she initiates the process of alchemical transmutation in me she is not at liberty to stopper it, for she does not possess the power to justify such a hypocrisy. That power all ways rests with my consent and the consent of the Spirit that informs us both.

The bullying skeptics laugh at my fortitude, suggesting that the privilege of experience entitles her to my undivided attention. They laugh that I should “probably” (with [their] trademark ambiguity and avoidance) heed her warnings, subordinate my will to her advice, and shed my own conscience, all in one motion.

Yet values are not so easily eroded. A tree does not shed its core, in most cases, maintaining its shell. It simply puts on more and more rings. It does not un-root its self, even as it grows higher and higher in its pursuits. Its seasonal changes are purely superficial.

So it is that we mature not by shedding our dearest values and replacing then with new ones. Nay: such a “transformation” would be an exchange of masks at most. The Soul is incorrigible, even if it is yielding. So it is that we prevent the worst of miseries: that a boy privileged by experience begins to fancy himself a “man” and therego betrays the fight against privilege initiated by his less fortunate or ruthless peers.

Nichole was wise but not just. So long I’ve accommodated her unsettling statements that she holds no moral sway over me. She is still rooted in the passions to the point that they might poison her judgment. Perhaps she attracts the amoral to her as insects are attracted to honey. And she too is an insect: the Queen Bee whose honey nourishes them, but whose venom keeps them at bay.

She is not wary of the world; she is either still a child within it, crawling up as others, by her own admission, observe her ascent patiently from on-high. Perhaps she is WEARY of the world, but that is just exhaustion from the steep climb that we must all, over several lifetimes, brave.

So who is she then to judge of me?

When Kresten betrayed me for Alanna, I did not “honor” what they would have liked to call their “relationship”. Theirs was the NEGATION of a relationship, borne from the annihilation of seasoned loyalty. It was cursed from the very start.

Nor was it that having-known-Alanna-first had been of any service to me in preserving my relationship with her. Once it had been spoiled by Kresten, it was never again the same.

So it is that where **** and +++++++ are concerned I do not flinch. I owe no loyalty to ****, and he is probably every bit as amoral and conceited as was (and [daemonstrably] is)

Kresten. I do not feel a debt to their privilege of having-known-each-other[-]first; if Kresten’s self-entitlement is so deep as to warrant TREACHERY, mine is hardly so severe, for I owe no loyalty to be betrayed. And I CERTAINLY do not honor the relationship for its own sake. That would be commitment of the Naturalist Fallacy, and such Fascistic romanticism would vindicate Kresten’s seduction of Alanna by its having-been-done alone. NO one is entitled to such depravity. Not on my watch, and it is my affect alone that I require as warrant. If they wish to defend their own emotions, they have to contend with mine, for I remain a victim of my own kindness, doomed to watch them destroy one an other. And to think that Alanna did not think I was akin to God! Imagine God watching his children wage war just out of ignorant self-preservation alone!

I bring no war here. I bring only love. If Nichole’s naiive theory were true, and all relationships that are meant to be SHALL be, and all relationships that ARE are MEANT to be, then it would make no difference for her to make money off of natal readings for the unrequited lovers. If she admits to qualms and hesitations, she all so admits to such readings, deviant conventionally but not necessarily (as she believes them to be) deviant spiritually, having the potential for DESTRUCTION. And where destruction can happen so can creation in its place. So how come she “knows” that the WILL, unregulated by the Spirit, did not bring **** and +++++++ together, as it had for Alanna and Kresten? It is not arrogant of me to assert the Truth: that I had loved Alanna, that I had served her more loyally than Kresten had ever served ANY one, even his self, and that my love for +++++++ now SURPASSES even THAT love that I’d had for Alanna. Why should I sell my self short? I would be oppressing my self and cheating a fine woman of an opportunity.

So if what exists might have been built by Will alone, and not by Fate, and this is so ubiquitous that Nichole would so readily shy away from the Will a priori, then why not own my OWN Will in carrying out what I posit to be the Will of the Spirit? If I am FATED to be with +++++++, all that remains is that I destroy what fateless man created and build what God intends. I will not have His will be thwarted again. I serve Him, not vainly, and so it shall not be in vain that he sends me messages, elating me with each step that I take towards +++++++.

It is unfortunate if Nichole lost her husband to an affair. I now see the root of those troubling quivers in her voice that a smile cannot hide each time that she laces her privileged reflections on love and romance with pleasure and perhaps vengeance.

One thing is certain: with Scorpios the diplomatic laws of Libra hold no sway, unless the Scorpio allows its self to be disarmed by its disarming Venutian neighbour. Certainly Libra will not disarm ME, the Piscean whose Love is an exaltation and an IMPROVEMENT upon the vanity of Venus.

The portents are in accord: I shall no longer be-Alone. If it was a Scorpion that put me here, that Grey Lizard Kresten Taylor, then it shall be a Scorpion, of an Eagle-s Dignity, that redeems me of my solitude and redeems Scorpio of my contempt. No other force is strong enough to move me now. And only that force moves me, daily towards its loving grasp.

Dm.A.A.