This poem is a continuation of the prose poem entitled ‘What is sentiment to the void soul?’
My soul is light. My laugh rings free. After years of seeking, I have found. And do you know what I have found, my friend? I have found a companion, alike to me, to revel and share in our feelings. Oh, what a little joke on my part was that! Did you notice how that word once again came forth? Feelings? Hah – I have no use for such trivial things, which I had already mentioned if you had cared to lend me an ear. Indeed, we both have no use for feelings, which is what completes the circle of our bond. Merrily I state that we both have souls devoid of all.
We together remain in a deserted, isolated path, the only path that our souls can comprehend. No, I am not talking about the relationships between myself and you, my dear. Verily I speak of my newfound companion. The only path is not matter but anti-matter. Yes, it is the essence of my very being, if you will indulge in me saying so. But of course you will, for it is none but truth, and only the evil that exists in a living soul could prevent me from saying so. I beg your pardon? Oh, how deserted this alley we walk is, you ask. Well, well, I bear a tale which I will loyally demonstrate for you. See here, now. At the window of my thoughts (and may I once again stress its noticeable difference to petty ‘emotions’) I shout. I shout out, but my voice resounds, it echoes like waves crashing against a cliff, swirling figures of infinity in the mouth of a cave, only to remove itself to freedom moments later. So of course, it would be very isolated. I make no calculations as I know for a fact that the reply of no-one reaches me.
Enough of this, I have talked too much. Much more even than your timid, weak minds would absorb. My newfound friend is void of a soul, just as mine. But friends, let us not be hasty, for there is a difference. My soul lives on. And, my dear, her soul is in Purgatory, for which she is the only soul who I have been thoroughly able to understand and withstand, despite her non-breathing existence. It is beautiful, is it not? That her soul ceases to exist in the realm of the living, like mine or yours, yet she exists as matter, and still has a form in this world? I observe a plume of rich red darkness erupting from the cavity in which her soul once rested.
Legally, they term it as ‘victim’. But instead, I say ‘friend’, for this word is much more auspicious in the face of death. I assure you once more, I am truly not crazy, I cannot be. It is just a sweetly bitter fact of life that I am forced to resign myself to – that I am not crazy, yet I am called this for the mere fault (it is not even a fault) of being a poet. I like to call the form, the body in which her soul no longer exists, not as a ‘victim’, as the bureaucrats would name it. Instead, I find her to be a poetic expression of myself. Look deeply, look with seeing eyes, my friend. And you will surely see it to be so.
I will presently withdraw my knife – Wait, my friend! I mean you no harm, come closer. See how this knife glints? How it subtly yet effectively catches the last rays of sunlight in all its glory? This – this is what I aim to be. Now look at my soulless companion’s body. This plume of rich red was not my fault. It was the fault of the knife, which stabbed once and did not fail in its duty to take the soul of the living, human and not human, away. Yet I did not regain her life, nor did I try. It was best left without a soul, in my opinion.
Once again, you may rest assured that I have not the slightest problem which may make me seem mentally challenged. As it is, the capacity of the mind’s intelligence cannot be determined through such differing tests and examinations. My dear, you must know that I am tired of this word, the word ‘crazy’. I have been called by this much too often, it has hurt me and left a lasting impression on me. If I were not in such a position as now in which you, my friend, utterly lack confidence in me, I would ask you to say something fresh. Say something new.