Helpless and wrapped in an unstable hope, I mournfully sip another dose of this noisy solitude whose content does not seem to have an end.
See how life is indecipherable and how this weakness that we naively baptize feelings is inconstant. Not so long ago, I was rejoicing in the love and found myself stunned by every small, splendorous act of the angelic being I loved. In life, nothing bothered me except the setbacks that kept me from loving her all the time. I was so sure I had her forever, that her love for me was unbroken and limitless. I settled for earning her love annually, not daily, as it should be done.
Certainty is illusory, and, unlike uncertainty, its anguish is silent and disguised as pseudo-safety. I wish I had chosen to feed on uncertainty in that feast of options I had. If that were the case, I would still get drunk on the pleasure of being loved by the most sublime being ever created by God.
Love was the last bridge between me and this ordinary, frivolous, superficial, materialistic world in which I am nothing but an outsider. Love was the last spark of sociability, and what tamed my ignominious bestial nature. Now I have only eternal exile, to wither completely until I become just a carnal ornament of this world and live exclusively in my own psychic and spiritual fantasies.
