At times, I am deeply dissatisfied with my affections towards others. For now, it seems as though these affections are requited, yet set to diminish without any hope of revival. Since birth, love is nurtured and cared for without question, until it is neglected and fed to the famished flames that burn through every blood vessel of its existence. Oh! If there’s any hope of the sudden mockery of the phoenix! Then do as I say and return from the ashes, my kindled heart! If only in dreams may I feel the aching muscle pumping beneath my small breast, alive…but no. Ah, Mr. Poe, sir, you are a devious one. The mind is independent of the earth’s frantic need to taste the flesh of one more victim’s submissive nature. It is not a matter of night and day that determines one’s motive to realize the truth of one’s existence. The changing shade of the hour is part of the circumstances of living in the system discovered by our dear friend, Copernicus. The mind is a sanctuary, a retreat, a safe haven, for those who have good use for it. One may separate the mind from the heart, but in many or all cases, they act as one. The trouble with this is that in any occasion or two, a reluctance for either muscle to function without the other is inevitable, for one who suffers a loss refuses to live wholly, appearing to be breathing, but without hope of a heart’s beat; and if one has only a heart but not an independent mind, society enforces its evil obstruction of justice, as slowly, we all become the minions of authorities who dare to interrupt our precious thoughts with their need to protect the egotistic nature of political rule. But the human race will always be submissive to corrupt power, even that of love. However, if one lives without love, one may never know grief. If I can one day find the error in that, then when the time comes, I will rest in peace. Until then, today, I regret to relate my identity to those who possess my affections.

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