
I will end my creative life…
.
Take from the world my affections, my reasoning, my passion, sometimes marvellous and unforeseen. It will be a merciful thing to do, killing myself at the point of love, ceasing the agony of living without it; with invention. But no, that is romantic nonsense. In the end it is the madness of secrets, those stories never shared, the love denials, the wintry passages through boredom, the harmonic intervals followed by summers of discoveries.
There. The killing was easy.
The light of my day extinguished. Life no longer holds a fascination for me. The day before I died I was breathing, smiling, charming all I knew.
But now, having killed my spirit, it is time to reinvent my life; hide from view, from past affections, from criticisms. So, yes, I killed my brilliance, split my spirit, ended sorrow, and yet, I keep my friends believing I walk among them.
I remember myself; sure I do, fleetingly, as one recalls a dream days later. I am purified of all wrongdoing, released of desire, living in a world that is my salvation. Gone is the egoism of adolescence, the studious optimism, and the hourglass of nocturnal melodies. There are nights when I wish to hail him, this deader than dead man. Discover the secret of his wintry nights, the visitations, the simplicity of his breathing but to my relief, creativity is no more.
R.I.P.H.H.
