Public Letter. (to Someone Else.)

Each time I played a part

Believing myself closer to

Escape.

I offered you my heart

Within your paradigm.

You offered me only

Red tape.

Aware that I’m

Alone. You still

Required of me

That which you

Would never

Grant.

You want me to atone.

And though I’m prone

And want it, too

With you:

I can’t.

Let me just make this clear to you:

You have no moral authority over me.

You do NOT retain the Higher Ground, from which you might preach to me and reprimand me for my insolence.

Over the course of half a year I agonized over you, running in circles, falsely believing myself with the conclusion of each cycle that I was coming closer to escape. With every one of your letters ended one torment, and no sooner came relief than came the next, each time growing, like the anticipation of the next drop in a water torture.

This you did.

And you were not the worst.

Many I have known like you, yet each time I loved each of you as an Individual. Each time, I adapted my Being to you.

Yet each time it was not enough. You were much too unclear in your prescriptions. You penalized me ex post facto. I was put on trial for sins I knew not to be sins. Yet you could not supply me with evidence that you represented an Absolute Meritocracy. No matter what I did, the promise of transcendence remained elusive. Your own words made it clear to me: nothing was promised. I will go on, slaving away in search of some algorithm by which at least one woman’s consent might be ensured. You will always dwell, among all your fellows, within the back of my mind, only to remind me that no such algorithm might exist. Those Great Men who believed themselves to have found it have been publically defaced, imprisoned, and excommunicated. But I shall run that risk in the pursuit of that elixir which will act as my key to the Erotic Domain within which you navigate so gracefully and with such ease. I will pursue that Love Potion, only to prove to you that it exists. And if its components should include those platitudes which you prescribed, then YOU shall be redeemed within my eyes, not as a manipulator, seeking to mold me to your fancy as I lie awake both day and night, but rather as a Saint, one privy to that Transcendent Domain wherein Human Life makes such glorious Sense that all of our errors are made more readily apparent as tragedies. If no such Domain exists, truly, then all of your prescriptions for me amount to nothing more than mind games. Yet if I can but prove that such transcendence is possible, having secured consent by my will AND MY WILL ALONE, then I acknowledge the possibility of your righteousness, I bow low before your Authority, I venerate your Sanctity passionlessly, and I adapt myself, yet again, to your Vision for me. Yet if these were but Imminent requirements, know this: there is no warrant for them outside of your own preferences. I may never be blamed for having been negligent of them. I stopped trying to impress you only AFTER I saw just by what margin you had failed to be impressed.

Regards.

Dmytri.