I believe there is a theory that men and women emerge finer and stronger after suffering, and that to experience life in its totality, we must endure that ordeal. Only then do we emerge fully aware of our actions and their motivation.
Misery brings out the honesty in people. Honesty we can only feign, never having experienced our worst.
My agony stems from jealousy, the origin of which is unknown even to me.
I do believe insecurity, about my ‘competence at living’, might be a factor, but I am yet to define’ competence’ and ‘life’, and it might just be “ a tale told by an idiot, full of fury, signifying nothing.”
Giving tribute where it is deserved, envy has been my constant companion in ennui and otherwise.
It might just be a poor whim of my fancy or a powerful tool, an antagonism, emancipating me from bitterness and futility.
Envy had come into her own and, little by little, in her stealthy, seductive way had encroached upon my being with long, tenacious fingers.
“Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety.”
One might pronounce this absurdly tragic but being quintessentially promiscuous, ‘happiness’ is not a possession to be prized. It faintly implies tranquility and thereby demands resistance.
We live beneath the mercy of drama. We are yet to exist because of it though.
I don’t seem virtuous, but I do seem parasitic.
“Assume a virtue, if you have it not…
And thus I clothe my naked villainy With old odd ends, stol'n forth of holy writ And seem a saint, when most I play the devil”
Insidious as it may sound; my ‘villainy’ inspires my ingenuity. I do not feign indifference, my misery infuriates me, but I relish the pain.
My life, from all that I can decipher, craves drama. It yearns for that one masterpiece my mind might conjecture.
To loathe myself in the frivolity of my thoughts would be to redefine ‘living’. I wouldn’t be the furious ‘idiot’ and I wouldn’t be guilty of spite. But then, I would be insipid and mundane, falling in equality. Living in mediocrity aspiring for only love, my seduction slowly, slipping away.
But to even think of change implies infidelity. So what am I guiltier of? Not staying true to my character or adorning one whose mere existence demands penitence?
My envy is my Hamlet.
“So full of artless jealousy is guilt. It spills itself in fearing to be spilt”.
