When I imagine that sort of an
encounter, the Polite World is transfigured, reduced to animalistic sensuality,
the players recast as pornographic actors whose every gesture is a pantomime of
decency, and as I see them supervised by these same criminals and traitors, my
disgust peaks. In my envy, I expose a kinship to them; I desire that which they’ve
desired. Yet in what sort of a World are THEY the ones who know fulfillment? It’s
that gap between us which persists in haunting me, for I am certainly its
victim. Ten years I have tried to bridge it, yet they do so, often at my own
expense, and by my efforts, multiple times over. So when they think to compare
me, I’m indignant. I have sought by righteous avenues that which they stole; my
every gesture has been all but scripted, while they merely improvised. I stand
upon the stage a solitary hero, whose pain is the audience’s plight, whose plaint
is nothing short of prayer before our Gods, and whose despair is but the work
of our Devils. My World favours all who venerate it; their World favours only
them. My love transfigures, while their lust only disfigures.
[({DM.A.A.)}]
No comments:
Post a Comment