The rite

I remember at all times, in all variations of an interval, the deplorable inurement of my pallet, to that egregious taste of misery. It was by the manifold fallibilities of my discernment, that the cartilage of reality, remained an obscure cancer, and I was subjected to its malevolence, without cause. My prospects were without beauty and my dreams, but an exquisite metamorphosis of picturesque albeit mundane objects, into unfathomable atoms of the chronically grotesque. I had inherited, a desolate house, in a rather quiet part of the country, and from its irredeemable rendering of augmenting decay, I derived a rather beautiful prospect of melancholy. It was my father's wish that I inhabit the precincts of this fabric, despite that fallible disinhibition of nature's decadent course. Some echo of lament, constantly lingered in the threshold, of my conscious and still, I could not find it any different, from the apparitions which waned and raptured in my bosom. I was now alone, and my wife had departed from me, in bitter repudiation of our rapport in the prospect of its longevity. Here was were I would retire, withdrawn and jaded. In the ensuing months I had taken comfortable residence in the small house, and furnished it in vain to its pristine order. I had been inured or rather had grown morbidly masochistic to the implausible satire of my misfortune, until it became pleasurable to relate my woes to shadows and idle vessels. I drank an immeasurable portion of alcohol, so as to gauge the strum of my nerves, and soften the agony of memory.

My health was now weak, and in the adequate closure of this prerequisite chapter of my corruption, I felt I was under a crimson spell. I would murder what was left of myself, and lay to waste all aspirations, all unattended preparations of better days. I sobbed, as an immutable radiance of nihilism, outpoured from my soul, unto all objects fathomable. I thought, I would read a scripture from an old abandoned bible before the final accumulation of volition, and as I fumbled it upon a desk, a note fell from its pages. It was my father's handwriting which penned,

"I cannot forgive myself for the curse I have put upon my son. Every generation has lived in this abode, and inhaled its ancient depression. It consumes our soul, and yet, if we do not accommodate its precincts, we risk the death of all generations."