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by Danny James

What brings this burgeoning tumult of rapturous insight, the unknowable depths of which into it appears I have not so much fallen as leapt? Like a heretic sentry from his all-seeing, overlooking formation suddenly shot alive with option of startling contrary, and broken the spell of the deepest convictions of his identity; neither with the clearest rationale behind the impulse or its outcome concerned, perhaps thrice as bound by convinced he is not, and plummets so, individual.

Although I am already aware the dreadfully unavoidable truth of impact, if incompletely the origin of lure, – of what I ask myself most intimately regarding this strange new temptation that has never till now been attractive, I manage still to salvage some distortion to the facts as pleases but harmfully. As it is in the Nature of emotional pleasures, by instantaneity satisfied and begun so forth. And of this may I have grounding, but no immunity. Else I could temper my zeal to eloquence, and discourage the course of desire in the blood, that pools a conjuring of her reputation to my heart; might I know then a morning absent of mourning the memory of that split second of forever under the peaceable govern of sleep, near about the period, I estimate, to be the first stir of arousal, – with bursts and fragments of alert consciousness only afterward recognised to have been. All contained in the prior-hood of slumbers end, following which quickly realises that the world-stopping kiss that affects my awakening is in fact a figments wrath in dream. And each day thus begins in this deficit, perceiving a loss where does not truly occur, only ill value-judgements make it so. If It were instead, as palpable in advance, as it is plainly visible to sight, – some haze or flinched at heat given off from the coming fire, – the ruinousness and verity of my inventions mockery that am unable to affront quite so perfectly as I abide with curious abandon, I might then predict futility in hoping and the pain of its outrage with no need of the experience hitherto. Yet the source, I can apply no logic to solving that is not diluted by my biased inclination to the joyous feeling of anticipating what may be felt potentially, as persisted in so many decorative accounts thereof however much here is evidencing no prospects but of an upset. She has become a strife, this convenient apparition, by numbing the actual strife thusly that needs her. An illogical, circular, self-crafted, self-effacing system of nutritive ruin, to which yet as much logical, reasoned and sound remedy dresses equally resists.

Though I urge forgetfulness in me, or attempt to recollect that resilience of yesterday that perhaps shone in one brilliant moment of mindless tenacity, – rathering instead the composite mettle to withstand than to without, and no such stuff discovering in the face of inevitable consequence, is all too much for my strength to reason. For Reason her dear eyes bend, and apace have I gone already to bend a reconciliation for it.