Decay

I start this post on a sombre note: Hamlet and I had one of our rare fights. Like all things associated with Hamlet, there was nothing even remotely conventional about this skirmish. In fact, the only reason I am calling it a 'fight' is because I have no other word to describe it! And you know me well enough, reader, if the word exists, I will find it!

It all started in a fairly silly way: a grammar joke (an abysmally bad one) was made, the stink of my compromised dream caught up with me and a whole lot of unpleasantness followed. Yet, no accusations were hurled, and not because of the 'saintliness' of my heart or the true saintliness of his, but merely because there was no accusation to be made! It was just uncomfortable! I mean, God knows, I can be very, very acrimonious but not to Hamlet! Never! Oh and I didn't have a reason! You see how confusing this is? Nothing happened and yet the stench, that rancourous stench was there! Take it from someone who knows, dear reader, never let the acid odour of decaying desires overpower the fragrance of something that is actually good for you.

The flood waters have seeped into everything and that malodourous smell permeates through my friendships, my mood, my cavernous room, my lonesome bed...Like in the Tennyson poem, from here can I feel 'the broad stream in its banks complaining'. Oh decay, decay! There is nothing here! Nothing! I have no stories, I have no revels! Like Charles Ryder, who fashions himself a Gaveston surrounded by 'wanton poets and pleasant wits...music and poetry is his delight, [he] shall have Italian Masques by night.' Ah me! Fear hangs about my neck, fear that my city shall say this to me: '"Go whither thou wilt, seeing I have Gaveston!"' Oh how jealous and base have I become! The glint of the moon roils my blood and drives me mad! Mad! Punjaban's love, Hamlet's fortitude, Charles Ryder's sprightliness are all bright, bright lights that accentuate what I lack. What of my fortitude? 'Tis a jest! A fortitude made up of sighs and theatricality! "Go to!" the city shall cry! "Go to! We want none of you!"
I do not want to go home anymore! I don't think I can! It won't be the same! Like unhappy Edward of yore shall I beg the Eternal City:

'Know that I am a king: oh, at that name
I feel a hell of grief! Where is my crown?
Gone, gone, and do I remain alive?'



GossipGuy.