My mind twitches in anguish, reaching back into eternity as it claws beyond the deepest reaches of my conciseness. Each memory from that night feels like a knife. The razor sharp edge of each memory plunges into my soul with each passing thought. Every attempt I make to recall, to remember, even simply to put to rest that night yields only the greater terror of regret. I toss and turn each night still. I fight the sheets curling my fists into the pillows as if I can still feel the warmth… the glow…
…having spoken so softly upon the night air, having drifted so light heartedly, only to find that so much passion could have ended in so much pain, that she must have been carried from that place, that time, that infinitesimal moment of our lives humiliated, betrayed, defiled; so many emotions I can not begin to imagine! And I to would be betrayed, I to would become conceded and lost in my own selfish pride.
Ye think sin in the beginning sweet,
Which in the end causeth the soul to weep,
When the body lieth in clay.
My body is yet to rest in clay for it has yet only to come to rest in a pool of crimson red. And if the concerns of the Everyman may be tossed aside I found my self asking, as Hamlet had:
Must I remember? Why, she would hang on him
As if increase of appetite had grown
By what it fed on; and yet, within a month –
Let me not think on’t!
But what, thy name is woman? Frailty she did not show but instead the very cunning of a prince. A devil she was and pleasant shape she did take. As Hamlet I to was robbed of reason’s sovereignty, and drawn only into the madness of my youth. To brotherhood and friendship nothing was conceded, and so much more lost. The bitter sweet dichotomy of wilted roses and crossed swords never more would be seen again.