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I wrote and as I wrote, my attention was brought upon one detail; I wrote what and how I felt. I found myself the creator of various compositions on love and loneliness. Everything that stimulated and moved me to put down in words what I felt; making me try desperately to describe it. My fuel was inspiration and my goal to create something worth reading. Soon, inspiration became very necessary- too necessary - so I set out to find it. I longed for that fire and from my lust, affiliation turned to a fixation. I needed to find visions and if not found create them. I needed to feel to be able to describe. I forced a fiasco of an image of love upon my mind. Implanted depressing thoughts into my head so that I may write it down and be praised for my work. I was dominated to the point of setting a new quaesitum in my life: to unearth ultimate and never ending inspiration.
My holy quest a high priority; I looked for young girls - their youth brewing strong passion - to seduce and bring into my control. Not once did I hurt one or even treat them badly. In fact, I gave them all they wanted. I gave them happiness only so that I may feed off their emotions. I'd make them fall hopelessly in love with me using roses as my drugs and words as my alcohol. Then, when I knew I had them, I would begin to probe and sap their views on all types of life's abstractions. I would analyze what they thought and pondered afterwards on their answers. Then, when the spark and fire struck me, I'd write like a madman. I could actually feel my "love" for them surge into my quilled pen and upon the blank paper. With every passionate word I wrote, my emotions escaped me being captured forever in sentences and paragraphs. When I'd finished, the completed work would be a masterpiece and my "love" for the girl was completely drained thus forgotten.
I'd move onto the next.
It's quite incredible actually. If I had to describe myself, I'd use the image of the classically gothic Nosferatu; our differences been that the vampire of fabled tales seduced the girl then drank from her life pulsing blood while I sipped from her emotions. Both of us monsters; both of us conscious of it; both of us continuing anyway being drawn to the pleasure of their equal and complementary life's essence. I believe myself to be more horrid though. The ghastly demon merely drinks from their body…I drink from their souls! Not once did I ever think I would stop and therefore, I frequently found myself feeling terrible at the crime I had committed and even wept sometimes uncontrollably. I thought this curse would continue until I die, as is the Nosferatu's eternal damnation.
Little did I ever know
One Glorious day, while in a pub I visited frequently, I encountered a creature which seemed filled with darkness. She played with a white rose plucking out its petals slowly as I watched her. At once, I knew this woman would be a difficult one to win over and from the way she made a mockery of that rose, I pitied any man who tried. None the less, I - having to be the hopeless romantic - approached her. My "symbol" was that of a white rose; this I used to establish my argument against her. I told her firmly - yet always with a cool edge - it would be blasphemy to destroy such a venerable symbol of love. She merely grinned and grind the rest of the rose before my eyes. Acting offended, although maintaining my smoothness, I raised a brow. She still smiled crookedly. The following I could never opinion on. Maybe it was an effect from the wine I'd been drinking or maybe it was something created by my fancy. To this day I could never tell if what I saw was illusion, or reality. She proceeded to take out a shimmering white powder from her pouch and mixed its contence with the marred remains of the flower, changing it into a black rose in perfect condition. Intriguing me, I sat next to her and began a conversation; sipping my wine now and then. We spoke often after that and she took a liking to me quickly. I treated her as in treated the rest. With such gentility smoothness and I always spoke highly of her. The night before we wed, we made passionate love for hours. I can still taste her lips that night and feel her soft skin while hearing her seductive moans. I could never forget.
Afterwards when we conversed, we'd always try to make each other happy. I was use to this and even expected it. As I was with her, I began probing for what inspiration I could find so that I may drain her as I did the rest. I found many sources to tap into - oh yes. She was like Solomon's mains to me. I indulged in her soul. She wrote, sang and was skilled in other areas as well. Everyday she picked me curiosity more. When I read her stories I could feel its sadness in me. Even her words inspired me! I envied her. Envied the way she wrote; with such passion and reason; mostly without much to inspire her. It was as if she was born infused with the words so that she may deliver her writings to this world. Her drawings touched me. She drew better than I did when I sketched. I envied her almost as much as I loved her. I was proud of and greatly admired her. We'd fight many times due to the fact she thought of her work as mediocre. To me, this could be no farther from the truth. I told her that every artist's masterpiece is perfect to the rest of the world expect for him because he had to look for flaws in it and so the artist - the true artist - thought her or she could never achieve perfection thus making them strive to better themselves. She always told me she'd understood. She loved me. My God she loved me and I was using her! I wrote about her with different characters describing her passion, love and thoughts. Every person created from her soul's elements - as I loved to call it - being incredibly deep in emotions and endued with a superb intellect. This continued until one day, I found nothing else to write about.
I told myself that it was over now. She had nothing else to offer me so I began to think and plan ahead for my next break-through…but I couldn't. I couldn't look at another woman without comparing her to my wife. I couldn't think of my writing because I'd recall hers instead. I would remember - when I was alone - of the times we'd shared intimate moments and feelings with one another. How we'd found safety and love in one another after a lifetime of rejection by the world. This I thought of and not my scriptures or compositions. It was then - then that I realized what had happened to me.
You ignorant fool! You'd fallen in love with her!
Yes, it was true. Slowly, as I read her stories and conversed with her many times, I slowly fell in love with her. As I envied her work almost as much as I loved her. As I'd imagine her sing to me in my most enjoyable dreams - for I knew she could sing only I hadn't the time to hear her - I fell deeply in love with her.
I cursed myself a thousand times! Cursed myself for not seeing it in time! Cursed myself for not noticing how I'd get drunk with her love and sadness and emotions! Cursed myself for my ignorance!
I praised God for giving her to me.
For the first time, I wanted to be with her fully - to be with someone because I loved that person entirely I'd been off on a business trip when I realized this; my business finding new fountains of inspiration. I sattled my horse that same night and rode into the tempest which had arrived shortly before my illumination. The roads were dank and covered with mud from end to end that leaped at me every time my horse's hooves dug into the ground with its steps. My hair dripping wet, body soaked to the bone, I rode all night forward through the trees whose branches bit deep into my arms and face realizing blood. I didn't care. I felt no pain for I was in a state of highness spawned from the realization of my true love's existence. I gazed upon the furious night sky and screamed at the top of my lungs.
"Is this my redemption! Is she my happiness! Is she my salvation! Oh God I cherish and adore above all others, please, I beg of you give me a sign!" This I hadn't completed yelling when a shimmering bolt of lighting fell from the dark blanket of night seeming to create a fissure in the heavens. The most illuminated of them all that fell that night. Yes, I thought, this is my sign! She is my love and salvation!
I rode and pictured my arrival: I'd get there at dawn to which I'd proceed to enter my house and call to her. Not expecting me, my love would look at me - a surprised look on her beautiful face - and ask me why in heavens was I so early and why were my clothes torn and shred. My answer would be a lone passionate - deep seductive kiss where I'd take her in a state of shock in my arms and into the living quarters. Then, I would make love to her all day professing with every thrust how much I loved her. This I imagined over and over until I nearly became dizzy with anticipation and excitement. The blood pouring into my brain rapidly.
Soon, it was dawn. The tempest had died over and I reached my house where I found the maid weeping at the footsteps to the house's balcony. Out front was parked the mortician's death melodious black carriage. I approached the maid and asked what was wrong; my growing worry making my voice come broken at first. On the other hand, maybe it was the long exhaustive trip on horseback. Either way, I spoke firmly with a grim edge asking what had taken place. The woman kept weeping not answering my question and throwing me into a state of near madness. I grabbed her shoulders and squeezed tightly so that she gasped in pain. I repeated my question like a madman. She looked into my eyes and cringed back in terror. For a moment, I thought she'd actually seen the monster in me. The hideous creature I became when I assumed my Don Juan stereotype. I quickly dismissed it realizing I simply had a deranged mask. I relaxed my grip and structure, regained my composure then asked again what was wrong in my firm - yet cool tone.
"Oh lord!" she answered finally "It's the lady!"
"What about her?" I replied slipping into my madness once more.
The servant wiped her sorry tears away with a humid handkerchief I gave her and she tried to pacify herself. When this was accomplished, she looked directly into my eyes - kindling an unnerving feeling in me somehow - and spoke - her voice taking on a prophetic keenness.
"It happened during last night's foul uprising in nature. My lady, knowing her lord would be arriving on tomorrow's eve, wanted the house in order for him. The house was filthy in her eyes so we decided to sweep the floors. The broom being in the shed, I proceeded to go fetch it. My lady also knowing I'd fallen ill just hours before did not let retrieve the object and instead went herself. The sky was howling belligerently so I urged the lady to hurry. She got to the shed, opened it, and fetched the accursed broom. All seemed well until she began to run back. Lighting - the most radiant lance during the entire storm - struck my lady dead. By the time we'd gotten to her, she'd passed onto the world beyond our own"
All my life I've looked for ultimate inspiration. The grief and anger - rage and sorrow that coursed through my veins instead of blood filled me with a sickeningly powerful feeling. This was true inspiration! True pain and splendid sadness! I felt as if I could write tomes of books! As if I could create an ocean of volumes! I thought I that I could spend eternity trying to describe this feeling and never finish. I had found the divinely eternal fountain I searched for all my life! I'd gone insane...
