As a man, my reign is within guilt, and guilt is my protocol. I am no disbeliever to guilt, no stranger to it, as it hangs over my head like a plastered cloud, being stuck upon some unseen surface.
I receive the opportunity to not achieve, though to cover guilt. Behind me, there is a whirlpool of disaster, and I am the cause of it.
I wonder always why a woman is envious, of my mind? She, so fragile and gentle, so unbroken as she should be, is envious of this? This mentality to shroud guilt with yet another fortunate mistake?
A “fortunate mistake”, as it is rightly named, is not where a woman belongs. My reign in guilt is only to never see behind. I would only ever drown my pain, what I see so close, being the past, in a tide of wine. For Bacchus would be my friend, my closest neighbor, were a woman not ever present.
Her face, her love, and her heart, where I become lost in its endless veins of infinite paths, where I see emotion after splendid emotion; and, I am met with a new task. To not create chaos in her heart, to not turn her heart into yet another storm of my making. Not another disaster, with her. Not her.
Beauty is so delicate, and I have crushed much.
Why her? Why would she want this? The guilt in knowing what should be protected from her loving eyes? That is not for her.
I am a man, with a pain called “guilt”, and it is an instinct to be guilty, and to feel this guilt surround my form.
Love denies the present, and makes up for the past.
It is what I shall do for her.