“When there was nothing,
There was God,
Had nothing existed there would be God.
My being has been my ruin:
Had I not existed,
What would be lost?”
You had nothing to declare but your genius. You laughed at people for laughing at you. The communion of the words that you used was so precise, that it seemed incongruous in your youth. Now, the intelligentsia quotes you with an air of self-righteous defiance. I want to stop this defilement. Now, your words make so much sense that I am compelled to write about them in my insomniac juvenescence. These words that you used together, have slipped into the language, but it is not the same. They met in happy reunion when I opened a volume of your plays yesterday. The pages were a pale yellow from the nostalgia. I look at your languid vignette, your velvet jacket, your silk stockings and ofcourse, your sphinx like smile.
Your life let you down. You were betrayed by existence. But, your legacy lives on. Your aestheticism. Your hedonistic lifestyle. I look at your picture. Your eyes have a strange look in them, a faraway look that has a magical, mysterious knowledge that is impenetrable to me at this time.
You died a very long time ago. Now, 108 years later, I mourn your death. I hope that it is not too late. Your death seems unreal. Your life seems unreal too. I am saddened by my resigned apathy. Perhaps, grief is part illusory and part exacting. For now, I look at your picture and try to fathom your being. It says a million things. It speaks for itself. Now, I know that it does not need a learned exposition.