A Polemic for a Lost Love

In tragedy as in life the great envier of faith[1] once spoke that Greek tragedy is in itself, as is spoke of justice, blind. In his words in all tragedy comes recognition, and with such recognition “there is 'eo ipso' a question of prior concealment.” Tragedy in the most Hegelian of senses involves a unity of one man. And as The Philosopher[2] once spoke, “An infinity of things befall that one man, some of which it is impossible to reduce to unity; and in like manner there are many actions of one man which cannot be made to form one action.” There can be no unity in the action of any man who has yet to transcend the temporal by embracing the eternal. But that which is first concealed is only that of a single recognition. For the tragedy that is life, their must be that of a second recognition, of that which is the greater sin that has been concealed.

I have sinned. I have committed myself to the world of the aesthetic and sacrificed all honors I may once have had to claim as my own. That infinite chain of regression which befall me; the physical, mental, and emotional manipulation of so many past loves, has left me morally bankrupt. I know not what trust is, I have no faith left in the temporal. For that sickness onto to death that is which is being able to die. That despair which we are all capable, and as he who envies faith believes we should thank God himself for being capable of, can not lead to physical death or be escaped from in death. Death would serve as my last hope of escape from the horror of life, and yet in despair, death is no longer even an option. As has been shown even in the greatest fortune, “a womanly youthfulness which is sheer peace and harmony and joy”, despair holds it most “choicest dwelling place: deep in the heart of happiness”. But with out realizing the possibility of the infinite the self is lost with out any such notice. Imagination is needed to allow man such as my self to find faith, to rise up above the material world. But I have lost that great thirst for life which drives the imagination, for as I am lost in my own despair I trust no one not even my self. There is it seems now no way out, only darkness...

In the cold darkness of the early morning I tired legs carried what was left of my broken spirit across the soft ground. I wanted nothing more but to drop to my very knees and cry out, “Kyrie eleison; Christe eleison; Kyrie eleison!” But I did not call upon the heavens, for I was carried forward; pressed onward, sweep towards a quite hill side. And their among the thick layers of fog streams of moon light pierced the heavy darkness to reveal one defiant creature, that youthfulness which is sheer peace and harmony and joy; discovered here once more in a simple flower. The flower was open and full of life and color. I wanted nothing more but to pull it from the ground and rush to your side to so as to lay with it before you and beg forgiveness. I could do no such thing. I had not the strength to end its life. Not the strength to deny this world its beauty or to in that final search for redemption risk keeping the light of your youthfulness from this world.

---

[1] Soren Kierkegaard

[2] Aristotle's Poetics