The Infection, the Virus & the Disease

This is something we've all experienced and will, one time or another. Some experiences may be more tragic than others, but we can agree the disease leads to destruction. Here are my thoughts:

The disease started as an infection. At first I did not–I could not perceive I was ill. Surely, my sight deceived me, and disregarding the fact, I walked and talked as though the wounds were not there. Gradually, the injuries cut into the bloodstream. In time, I told myself, the body would heal itself. Yet, with time, the wounds grew larger; the aching and the throbbing moved from the joints to the abdomen and to the chest. I began to feel my energy declining and my frame decaying. My heart beats with thoughts of deceasing. My once spirited character seems now some cheerful woman of a past life.

When I grasped the magnitude of the fever, it had already spread such as a thunderstorm that covers the ground to the very last dirt, such as poison that corrodes the nervous system to the minuscule molecule, such as death that consumes the final fluttering of the eyes. The virus like most sickness was dormant—till at last the horrifying disorder had manifested itself completely into the depth of my soul. Once the plague penetrated my brain, I became mad with passion.

They say, the disease is a demented animal that tears not only its prey but also the raging heart. The disease is the agony which a woman feels from the trauma that she has been betrayed by the person whom she entirely trusts–from love was this disease born.

"I loved you when you were unfaithful; what would I have done if you were true?"     -Jean Racine

Why have you destroyed your most devoted?

Why have you destroyed your most devoted? How foolishly you have murdered your Love. A weeping promise was made to the heavens, the angels and God that I would love you with the most devoted of love–a love strong enough to turn the tides of foretold prophesy. How foolishly you slay me. How her grief and her pain are felt by the heavens, the angels and God–the devoted woman has drowned and died in wounds and tears.

For My Love (3)

Since a child, he and I lived and loved alone. It was in this seclusion that I found him, also deserted within the mossy fields. It bewildered me that shortly after I discovered him, whatsoever words that draws forth from my lips, they express only the most devoted love for him. We roamed as one–inseparable; “words” cannot be without “meanings.” In solitude, he shared with me his accounts of all things beautiful and captivated me with untold stories. In a reverie, I once visited his native land–a distant and lyrical world, whose inhabitants speak solely the Art of Tongues. They dwell as a romance fable: the people communicate in verses, the language is without cruelty, the tones–musical, the pitches–harmonious and the dialogue signifies the utmost passion.

It was his fine speech and his wonder of words that I developed high esteem for him. Quickly, I grew familiar with this foreign language, it became to me as my native tongue. Since I have met him here in the green moss, we have lived in a state of uninterrupted deep peace and ecstasy, such as the men and women of his birthplace. Each day we breathe in such indescribable bliss and sacredness that even the prior day pales in comparison. Every morning we stroll the pasture, marveling at the splendor and liveliness: of existence, of genius men and of ancient literature. We utter in amazement–the particular details that goes in the craftsmanship of all miracles of life. Every evening we converse of things others would proclaim insignificant. We observe the particular combination of words that transforms the ordinary sentence into its extraordinary equivalent. Say it be the Speaker exchanges a word here and replaces a word there that makes all the conviction, his prosecutors counter-less and his listeners motionless. Say it be the Writer omits a word here and shifts a word there that will make all the greatness, readers of the generations will quote him and thinkers of the future will study him thereafter.

Since a child, he and I lived and loved alone. So profound our keen affection, our love gradually reached the summit of its intensity. Sitting in the meadow in extreme joy: my Lover and I, My Inspiration and I, my Poet and I. We entered a timeless and deathless realm–into his native land.