Sonnet no. IX, Of Art and Life

I'm married to the world,

and in an affair with my body

My mind is my mistress,

and my thoughts are our sons

Among all things magnificent and lamentable, there lies between them an unconquered serenity - an oddity only told of by drunken tongue and glee from up above and deep below. But what inescapable irony it is to exist within this enchanting demimonde as a child-wielding flame, oblivious and rejected by the forces that govern, surrounded by the equal hemispheres of scintillation and the Stygian without the ability to fully embody either. It is because of this ignorant state why the angels envy us and the devils resent us. We, in all our wild glory, aimless and free from distinguishing being. Such is our nature, to be cruel and insatiable with hunger for the unique and the unreachable. Damned be Adam, Damned be Eve. So was it then by divine or apocryphal doctrine from Heaven aloft that Man, among all living creation, are foretold to suffer this eternal struggle between good and evil? To not know if we are of God or of the Devil? It is no wonder as to why the Light-Bearer had fallen.

To be worldly is to be rare. Unlike the immortal agonies whispered of in Hell and the amoral joyeuse sung from Paradise, it is the worldly who are born into the darkest maelstrom of pain and delight in equal tempests. Therein lies the iniquitous divergence between desire and surrender and where Man claims. Here, forsaken to a world hypnotized by duality with one eye upon the rills of Eden and the other fixed on the blood drawn from torn knuckles while the Heavenly Hosts watch from on high; consumed by jealousy yearning for a heart that could feel, if at all. I don't believe in the tears of angels, so to what, or who, do we owe this cruel art form that is what it means to live and breathe? Even this question reflects the enigma between mortality and divinity.

We are subjected to mortal flesh, accursed or blessed, touched by the lips of God with an ephemeral compelling to seize the shadow of His love. Nevertheless, be it tragedy or destiny, this life, in all its tyranny and aesthetics, is ours and ours alone and we cannot envy the angels, nor the devils. Whether by prophecy or enmity, grace or malediction, I will exercise romance with the afflictions against mind, body and soul for the sake of transcendence. From life to art.

-Antitheus