Sturm und Drang

Dearest Margot,

I think that you should be here at this very moment, in order to experience what musical and literary expressions I'm quaffing down. Do I want this in my life now is the question. I need an objective assessment of this bizarre occurrence.

It is too much for me to absorb, this wash of emotion from without that floods upon me both aurally and visually as storm and longing. To wit, it is Mozart's 25th in G-minor [to which I am listening] and a literary fantasy [which novel I had begun earlier in the day] of angels and demons that hold sway over a fictional community called Ashton. What a juxtaposing of Sturm und Drang in one man's tiny mind and heart! Is it probable that one might find the masterpiece of a 17-year-old lad grounded more in reality than an imaginative writer's fictionalized conjecture over the bizarre goings-on of the so-called spiritual realm? I am not without a well-inhabited fantasy world of my own - you, dear Margot, know that; however, the joining of grand musical drama and spiritual fantasy may not be so harmless toward my overall emotional well-being. I had taken well-thought-out steps to eradicate my soul of the damaging stain of haunted, unseen worlds. I should have put the book down when I realized where it was leading me.

Perhaps I am making too much over this little tempest brewing in my own spirit's teapot. After all, the music - simple in its melodic and harmonic introduction yet profoundly moving - is quite over. Lingering in my mind, however, are frightening images of winged demons chugging out rancid red breath, poisoning further the already fetid atmosphere of a town besieged by human weakness and error. Could Ashton be my own community, and I am afraid to discover the real truth behind what has been happening lately? A wake-up call? An inconsequential coincidence of sorts? A deadly contagion whose pall has been cast upon an unsuspecting town?

Well, how will I ever find out if I return the book to the library tomorrow, when it's due?

Love,

Henri

http://youtube.com/v/7lC1lRz5Z_s

Since I don't have you, my beloved Sarah

 

The grass is growing and the rivers are flowing, but of what possible importance can that be since I do not have you, my beloved Sarah? I truly endeavor to fill my days with meaningful pursuits. The routine activities, of course, are chores and obligations that must be performed. But no one dare convince me that I should find purpose or meaning therein. 

Accordingly, do not declare, my soul, that taking up a worthy cause shall bury my churning thoughts and cause me to dedicate myself to the welfare of others (whose suffering is arguably greater than my own). Please, do not patronize me, my ever-niggling inner voice, with high-sounding but hollow and worthless platitudes. I have no difficulty sorting out the whys and wherefores in my mind, however troubled it might currently be.

It is the heart, ripped bleeding from my chest, that cannot fathom your having been torn away from me so prematurely. Whether sooner or whether later, never could there be a right time to say goodbye.

That is the bitter and ironic tragedy: I was heading my way over to you to say I was sorry and to ask - to plead - if couldn't we start anew. Certainly, by virtue of your kindly nature, you would not have hesitated to say, "Yes, my love, all is forgiven." If certain of nothing else in this miserable life that I have begrudgingly claimed as my own, I could be absolutely sure of that, your seeing the best in me.

It is too late. I was wrong, not about your sweet and forgiving nature, but that you would gently reassure me all would be right again in this, our little world. Now it is I who speak, downward toward a silent, cold and grave you. Please accept my tears and these yellow roses ... I know how you always sighed with such ineffable joy every time I brought you your favorites.

I, your devoted Frederick, promise to return and place more of both upon this, your eternal bed, until such time as I should join you, my beloved ....

Adela and Adonis

 

Dear Adela,

I thought you so very much an English lady of refinement and poise that I am beside myself over this turn of events vis-a-vis your current infatuation. It is, without question, out of character for you to behave in a manner that flies in the face of convention and our British social mores. Your extravagant love for the Indian boy causes the mind to boggle. I and my entire family are incredulous that you - the rigid and pure Adela - should have been swept off your feet and into the maelstrom of a turgid affair of the heart.

How could we have known that the houseboy's ministrations to the family's physical needs would have taken such a turn? Into a cold, cold heart has arisen a heated passion; in the bosom of you, the renowned Ice Queen, has been created a premature thaw. Never had I hoped to see such a robust essence of springtime burst forth into the purview of me, your intended. Yet, hoping against hope for the warmth of romance to seize hold of you, I remained steadfast in my devotion toward our union.

While the proper and staid English gentleman that resides within says "No, this cannot be!", I daresay that my losing you to the beautiful man of dark skin, raven hair and milk-white teeth is mitigated by the simple truth that you are unquestionably out of your element. I will leave it to you and your headstrong ways to discern how you have commenced treading upon a path that shall certainly lead to the sure disappointment of a broken heart.

Adela, I beg you ... before your heart consents further to this madness, please peer more closely into your looking glass, imagining Adonis there by your side. Consider closely my words before it is too late ...

A heartbroken but wiser former fiance,

Nigel

The Jubilant Child of the Stars

 

It is time to say good-bye to all that, on this jewel of the earth, has been my lifetime's joy and raison d'etre.

I look upward toward the true home promised me long ago in a dream of genuine and incontrovertible substance: a nighttime's fleeting, subconscious fancy does truly have wings. The need for all physical instrumentality has vanished as quickly as the worry that once attended my every concern over the petty doings of an anxious terrestrial existence. To become one with the cosmos is no vain desire but a fully realizable expectation that, in my heart of hearts, is no less assured than the reality of the Celestial Entities themselves.

Communion with the ethereal elements, begun early on in this poor beggar's life, was scarcely more startling than the visitation to Bernadette at Fatima nor the silent but meaningful dialogue between Francis and his charges of the wood. Music from the Spheres provides all directives that the expectant initiate requires to commence his journey into the sublime worlds beyond.

Taking my leave of the life that I have loved but must now depart, the lowly but jubilant child of the stars bids all adieu ...

Le Petit Prince