the horseman, pt 5.

[a series written a million years ago by a total goth.
unearthed for amusement. posted in parts.
a ridiculed man desperate to find evidence
of the soul embarks on a murderous journey.

Delphia Clyde’s Diary Entry (Before Her Death)

I will admit it plainly now that which plagues my existence.


My art once flourished. I look at pieces I have fashioned long after midnight as if from witch craft, paintings I have summoned from a void of formless mind-smoke that all artists conjure from, sculptures concealed in the maze-depths of my mind, nonsense doodles on napkins of life-like portraits. Beautiful. I am proud of them, attached. And yet, now I cannot help but to wonder how I ever accomplished any of them.

My art once flourished, and now as my mind decays, I have lost the connection to that hidden world, whether it’s physically located inwardly or outwardly, that wistful place. I can’t find it. And so my art remains stored somewhere within my grasp, but out of my reach. It kills me… my work is what defined me.

In every waking moment I am away from him, my thoughts are engulfed with him and his every detail. My thoughts venture to how he’s wronged me and abandoned me; did he ever have a heart? Did he ever even love me with it? I whisper into the dark for the devil to take me. For death to cure me of this disease of love, because I can’t stop, no matter how heartless he’s been, no matter how much time passes, no matter how much I know it’s wrong.

I feel wolves pull and pry at me, drag me down, all from within and without.

What have I done to deserve this? He ignores me. He’s shut me out of his life entirely, and for a reason that I cannot guess. I felt that although my opinions were bold that he knew well that I was like him, we were alike, and as he’d often say, I was amusing. He’d often say, through teary eyes and unbridled laughter at a thing I said, that I had the best sense of humor of anyone he’d ever known.

And yet, he doesn’t speak to me any longer, not since I accused him of growing detached, of feeling so very far away from me. Was my lashing out the reason for him to lose his love? Was our love such a fragile nick-knack that it could be knocked over and shattered by those insignificant words? I am allowed to feel and I am allowed to say how I feel. All of my efforts to contact him, two weeks, have failed irremediably. He’ll not have company with me. I wait and I wait, and I pray and I pray. Nothing happens. Perhaps he knows the torture in pretending that I no longer exist to him. Yes… that’s it. It’s his cruel punishment.

It is devastating to be treated this way by somebody who was my lover; the lover of my life. When we make love I felt immersed in the act and in another world where only we existed, beyond bodies, two souls. And now he doesn’t care whether I live or die. Did he ever care? Will he laugh when I should die? Weep? Oh, that is what burns me the most, not knowing for certain. If I did, I’d love to make him weep…

Even in sleep, where one could hopefully steal a filament of solace, I am haunted by imagery of him coming to me, laying with me, apologizing so remorsefully, sad blue eyes. So vivid is it, so real, so true, that I awake reaching for that which is not there and then raging with tears. I’m tricked again.

All desire to create art has fled me. I am dismayed by this and so very, very weary. I grow wearier and wearier.

I shall wear now each time I leave my home the dress, which he bought me as a gift once long ago. Should he catch sight of me in public unwittingly, I will look lovely for him. Perhaps then he will be inspired to love me again and come back to me.

May he come back to me?

Please, come back.

written by: samantha lucero circa early 2000’s ©
image: ocean beach, SF, 1920’s.


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