Woebegone

It is a vast summoning, of emotions which ferment in the blood of my vessel, and the obscure fog of the soul, and it is, by uncertain degrees and intervals, a torture beyond pristine recoupment. To coin it as insufferable would be, a vain prosecution of prejudice, at the expense of an adamant truth, which, in paradox, is better endured, without meaning, than understood for its necessity. It was first a fatigue of the spirit, which in diagnosis, must not be exarcerbated by arbitrary conclusions, and then at length, I became intolerant of intercourse and the purpose of transactions, those of the corporeal and imaginative. But is it, this dearth and gloom, which is like a sepulchral winter lingering in the soul, protruding by a thorn of angst? It is perhaps the ancient parable of my life, which unfurls, by ghastly cadence upon the crushing seas of melancholy, or perhaps it is less of unrequited yearning and more of despair. I have not grieved, with such a deficiently sullen and yet profoundly arithmetic fortitude of acute sensibility, and I believe such is the uncorrupted genius of poetic woe. It is truly a feeling to marvel, that which is foreign to our dialect, and yet bound by the credence of its existence, and I fear soon I must answer to its request. Darkness is abound my futurity, and these few words, which you shall diffuse unto whichever credible derivation, must suffice what remains of my evanescent hope. My wife knows little of this, and it is best that she is not plagued by the misery which burdens, the flaccid impression of my soul. She worries of me, and I cannot bear for her to see me, bleak as an empty grave.Until I find victory in my commitment, which is to disappear, solivagant and undisturbed, you shall be my only friend, and I a SHADOW.