Love abused: Sanity vs Imprudence (intended for a former Flame of mine)

Love abused: Sanity vs Imprudence 


I. You’re NO vegetarian! I estimate, per annum your existence costs a   
couple of cows, a few sheep, a dozen of hens and so forth, their   
lives. You’re in majority, yet to abstain from accusing you of utter   
imperfection [in the respect in question] I find quite difficult. 


II. (Despite your voice’s semblance to singing of Angels – so I   
perceive it when you’re calm,) you’re NO Cecilia Bartoli; Jennifer   
Larmore or Vivica Genaux. 
My ambitions require a taste, a talent and erudition in a given   
respect no less than a physical Beauty (and I’d ultimately suffer   
great misery in resigning myself to the utter lack of the afore- 
mentioned qualities in the object of my Great Fervour). 


III. Your origin, alas, is scarce of cultural amplitude. So is mine,   
I’ll admit, but I’ve shaped myself into what I am, I’ve been both my   
Pigmalion and my Galathea. You don’t impress as one who’d give a   
remote thought to molding yourself without the spectrum of your roots   
(or beyond the agenda of the popular, plebeian cultural deficiency   
that nowadays reigns over the world of boys-and-girls, generally   
considerably younger than yourself). 

IV. Your past contains elements sure to alarm men, truly interested in   
You (those very few, seeking not merely victims to their sexual   
exploits) – I’m referring to myself and my potential likes here. 

V. I’m not young or inexperienced enough in Amorous matters and   
matters of Life in general to ascribe particular value to hipocrisy   
and cunning in the object of my reckless Passion. These components of   
Your sexual persona daunt me somewhat; if not for The Beautiful in you   
that I’ve had the pleasure to observe, first-hand, I’d have long   
regained the state of buoyant arrogance that (so very organically) had   
been accompanying me onto my unfortunate encounter with you. 
You’re a mother; one would like to call you ‘a Woman’, but not so:   
you’re a silly maid, your life is an arrant triviality, a continuum of   
petty gender games! Believe me, eventually the party on the losing end   
of these games will be yourself – let me warn you My dearest Wretched   
shallow thing! 

VI. I am at a loss as to whether your lack of depth irritates me more   
- or whether it triggers more pity for you… 



The list could be augmented substantially, but do let me content   
myself with the afore-mentioned and stop here. 

It appears to me that I must, for your own sake, concede to you a   
conveyance of my judgement of your persona. 

Facts and reason notwithstanding, let me admit I love you, I love you   
to death. Despite all odds, I’m, still, somehow inclined to [want to]   
believe that you are worth more than what you take contentment with,   
more than what you take for granted. 


You’re a silly girl who won’t think twice before disgracing me and   
trampling my feelings into mud. Yet, conceding to the advances of a   
casual lecher with no further plans – yourself cherishing none either   
- why, not a problem! Respect for you is beyond my aptitude, but   
killing my infatuation requires a while… a great lot of time… 

…In the meantime, Life lacks colour; it’s devoid of Beauty, has no   
content… pain is its sole component… 



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Please, do watch “Barry Lyndon”… (to a flame of mine)

Please, do watch “Barry Lyndon”: the movie will help you comprehend   
the scheme of my life path in perspective (additionally, the film in   
itself is a masterpiece of cinematography… I doubt you’ll grasp   
it… nonetheless, do watch this excellent film). 

May I already express my indebtedness to you for my perspective   
entourage: the likes of Renate Thyssen-Henne (zu Leiningen), Jennifer   
Larmore and living Grace Kellies. 
You’ll be to me what Nora were to Barry. You’ll understand upon   
watching the movie (or reading the novel… admittedly though I highly   
doubt your resolution to read a book – and to comprehend it -   
especially non-Russian, not too popular Classics). 

I were willing to accept and even love your children like my own;   
ready to exert myself out of my hide to make your visit and consequent   
new life in Europe (or in New York where I intend to settle next   
spring) possible. However, now I’m tempted to consider Monaco as a   
prospect, a haven in my newly awakened quest for practical   
satisfaction as inevitably consequent of the bitter improbability of   
shared beatitude with you. 
I had rather but with great delight wreck my life for your sake, My   
Love… Your levity, however, and your relation to me, yourself, to   
life and its components (most unpardonably, to oversexed vulgar   
libertines. Hence your indigestible approachability), your failure of   
not affection alone, but of elementary respect to your “particularly   
dear friend” (who for his part would dare everything within and much   
without reason)!. 

I must rediscover my pride, the very thing you – whether wittingly or   
not -managed to snatch from me! 

You may ask if I love you. Well, madly! Well above your worth. As no   
one else since long! With smart in the minutest element of my   
conscience. 

Who are you? What is your purpose in life? Why do you repeatedly sting   
the one to whom you’re sweeter than Nirvana? The one who’ll turn   
against the world for your sake till you stab him in the back. 
Who am I to you? Do describe your pleasure from hurting me. Name   
reasons. Is it vengeance against your parents? Or against the fools of   
your past (and possibly your present)? Do you call yourself a   
“[loving] mother”? Yet exhibit demeanour of a 15-year old oversexed   
little bitch! Who are you, my child? Who are you, Ilgisa? 



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