Sweet and mournful vexations fell all over me like a midsummer rain shower, while I was enticed frantically by my nocturnal demons with shallow folly. All alone I tried to disentangle myself from those chains of obsession.
I could barely breathe and I wasn’t able to remember my name at all. So reserved and bashful as I was born, I couldn’t avoid wandering nowhere to find myself and the arcane secret locked by my fate.
I had wished for myself a different destiny that would have granted me solace and delights. No peace remained in my treasure chest but only the dust of decay and a sparkle of dismay.
A deafening silence claimed that I was insolent for my fearless dreams. I missed the calm nights at the candlelight, soothed by the sound of lullabies and ocean storms.
I envisioned the image of spectres each time I approached the silver surface of a broken mirror. A feverish delirium forced me to succumb to the darkness of the night.
I might have been a withered flower. I might have been a living creature. The gelid arrows of the frosty wind penetrated my heart that was burning like an everlasting flame. So frail I felt I could crumble like a crystal flower under the influence of devastation.
Maybe the abyss of descent had swallowed me like a wild monster from the underworld. Chaos bound me like a velvet veil fallen from the gloomy sky, while shadows hushed me as if I were on the brink of disclosing their enigmas.
Sweet and mournful vexations lulled me to my decay, engraving a mysterious elegy on every stone of my dungeon. A magnificent melancholy consoled me now that I was nothing but just the spoil of myself.
I had created my own doom by means of my own nightmares. Was I the real and only creator of my own oblivion? That question echoed in my head forever like a haunting dream. I couldn’t even surprise myself anymore.
So greatly lured was I, drawn into the maze of my own turmoil, where each image promised ecstasy exclusively, and instead offered me only exquisite torments. So much intertwined I was in the spiderweb of my fears that I could not liberate myself.
Devoured by my own passions and obsessions, I entered the labyrinth of sweet and mournful vexations, which clung to my very heart like insidious ivy. Meanwhile, the imperceptible sound of the night surrounded me like a mystic mist. And therein I remained like a frozen butterfly in a garden of shimmering glaze.
Elisabetta Esther