Melancholia

'I have always, in the labyrinthine tapestries of time, felt myself to be an untethered spectre wandering the boundless dearth, of a cold, unfriendly world'

For my sake, it is only due that I emancipate myself, from the intolerable burden which is upon my breast, and give explanation to the resort of my ensuing convictions. It is under this dialect of inditement, that I assign the characters of a pure, unsullied, melancholy, which without the purport of soliciting itself to the compassion of another, gives credit to its envelope of provenance. Firstly, I shall acknowledge that the boyhood idealisms of the honest lover, have failed in the capital of a harsh reality, and I remain in the uncompromising shroud of bitter solitude. It is this same, perpetuate taste of a bitter pill, moistening upon my pallet, and sending me into a paroxysm of repugnance, that has made me, unknown to myself. I have become, at all accounts of government, hostile, and fruitless to any interpersonal, communes of interest, but in actuality, I blush, pardon me, it is myself that I have such an intolerance to. It is this boy who was unloved, for many seasons, finding only the disillusionment of a prickling reality for portion, that I myself, can no longer accept as sufferable. The girl who had, fragmented my hopes, and retired to the beautiful settlements of novelty and prosperity, is forever gone, and I feel only pain in gathering these shards, into my hands. I bleed, and yet now it is only for myself, for such is the true evil of existence, that those who suffer, must endure, without structures of limitation, or the positive intelligence of surmise, the very dysfunction of their fallibility. It is too much a sorrow, but I must live, until the day, in which the sudden surge of strength, and upheaval, destroys my property and lays me to waste. I have said my piece, and so you will not call me mad, when I designate unto myself, the day of my death.