The Little Owl

My little life stopped that day

There has been a race with my fleeting imagination this morning. In thought. By word, I could have asked the destination of the trip we were having. I could have vividly. I mention vividly mostly due to the nature of travel we were entertaining which is a trip down the memory lane. Dusty. Old-fashioned. Rosy still. Certainly it is why I endured this nature of travel. Personally, yes, I was frustrated.

troublesome, I cried.

Nonsense, he replied.

Who won the trip is another trip down the memory lane, yes?

The tale of the filthy pirate


Ignorance is bliss, I should tell him. But he wouldn’t discern meaning, would he. That if life were a largely convoluted marketplace, blissful ignorance would have been the thriftiest trade of them all. Priceless knowledge could rank possibly last with the crappy pieces from the memory wipes section, I should tell him. Tell him a girl a pirate is as good as Pilate’s liberator. Pilate because she hardly betrays her own nature. Pirate because she steals from her very own nature.

She is a pirate, I will tell him.

But he wouldn’t discern meaning, would he. I will tell him. Tell him that she is the filthy pirate. That she steals. That she is a good thief. A catchy one too. Sneaky enough to steal her own laughter . Swiftly enough to reclaim it at that measure too. She is a thrifty a thief, an artful a pirate, a plentiful a peasant and a gleeful a sinner but still sharp enough to steal her own heart.

I will tell her tomorrow that I saw her steal. This time not from her own heart, but from the neighbor’s pot. I saw her steal. I must tell.


Suicidal Jokes

“Lest the sheep stray far from their own herd, people will say the gossips of the farmer’s wife barely land the ears of the neighbor.”

“To be seen pushing a baby’s stroller is something noble once in a while in a man’s life. Making it to the other end is something else entirely.”

“A doctor should tell you that we must never judge the means by which a man hears his own melodies. In this way, that one man dreams and the rest merely plunge to follow suite.”

“There is this instant in thought where a man perverses in thought to think his own thought peculiar to his own. Many times, unconjured, he may even go farther to deem himself a walking-man with a hallucination of many thoughts. Directed, many would say the man forever dreams. Jokingly I would end to say a stop to say hello would with many deems be the end of his own jokes.”

“The chattering laughter of the morning wolf rises the snookles of the drizzling farmer from his dilly dallies upon a shimmering sun. With blatter he clatters his hoes to chase the laughter off the morning wolf.”





Beautiful evening, don’t you think?

Yes, magnificent

We saw it yesterday, friend

I know

Could ever get boring?

Certainly not

The Sun sets more beautiful, more glorious each day he says

I told you he worsens

Seems so

Oh, he promised Mind that bright star


The Northern Star of Eternal Nights

Point, watchman


Still, can’t see

That, the one that guides


Yes, the one he says was “smelted by the gods of skill and elegance of mind”

Oh, I see, but who from?

The Burning Spider


What for?

I don’t know

Also I hear that he bargained his dear soul for it, clever right?


And certainly foolish

The Little Birdies are noisy, more chirpier, and so finally he has a voyage for them, excessively dreamy, right?


Though the godly winds are perfect

Oh yes, all at once for, and against the voyage

Will he triumph?

Only if he sets sail now

Yes, not tomorrow, now

And, if tomorrow is now, he is excused

Also, he must go all the way

True, otherwise he shouldn’t even start

Yes, all the way, friend





If I must insist then, I as the chief inspector for this season’s harvest inspects that this weevil intends to rob its keepers of their sole belonging. To rob the farmer even more of his sole belonging, I as the chief inspector must ask two things thus. A one, should he be paid in return with this coming harvest. Or better yet, have you seen this overspent weevil?

I say then two things in relation to this bugging  weevil. Bug his store even further. His granary too I presume if indeed in your language a store equates a granary. If it does, then the bug equates the weevil to the presupposed bugging farmer during harvest time to bug out his weevil.

In simple, during harvest time, the farmer shall weep that I the chief inspector forgets not a token for his dying weevil.

The doom you ask? Looming doom. Explanation? The farmer counts.

Dreamy Dice


How is our mad man fairing on

He worsens



Is he always alone then


Of his own desire?

Of his own neccessity

Oh, he talks to his little birds nowadays

his greatest audience he says

What about?

Ballads of his own journey toward the gods

To what end?

I do not know

Glory perhaps

Even him he does not know

He claims its end is the gods themselves


More stranger, don’t you think?

Well, he is a dreamer after all

Oh yes, sturbon with his little dreams

But, I’m afraid it will kill him, or worse, poison his mind

I suppose it is the terrible price he must pay


Will he triumph?

He has to, the fellow is excessively passion hearted and wildly dreamy

No doubt

Though he mildly detests triumph

Yes, slightly

Still, I hope he triumphs

He has to



Midnight Tales




The Observer
Human interactions is a truly melancholy spectacle to watch, that is from the eyes of a reflective and utterly insensible observer.
This bored and contemplative man, with aim of capturing the very soul and essence of humanity, is demanded to observe attentively so as to remember distinctly.
So then, the observer notes, singly, every variation of the individuals’ reveries, intentional gestures, change of tone, the feeblest change of mood and accompanying stimuli, acquiring a vast deal of information about the subjects of his observation.

And woe to this lonesome observer, no creature shall endure such sorrow as him whenever he engages in that activity of disentanglement, his own thoughts included.
And moreso his mind; for it shall be consumed to degrees nearly maddening, by that terrible disease of Consciousness with Reason.
For he shall, in respect to himself, be plagued by a dim view of humanity, upon seeing the grotesque and disturbing loneliness that reeks with it.

He shall then be enabled to peer through its disguise, and uncover its darkest nature— the truest and purest form of Selfishness.
That tragic love for self, an air of self importance that never flag for an instant, even in a sleeper’s dream!
And this concentrative man, in his routine observations, shall analyse this sleeper whenever he awakens, and notice how the disease directs him to engage in events and with other sleepers, where this selfish disease is recognized and appreciated.
It derives the greatest pleasure from being the subject of discussion.

Fearful of succumbing to its torments, the observer shall then attempt to locate humanity that is above the weakness of appalling self-interest, save the distinguished men residing in mental institutions, savagely branded mad men by the cruel, uncaring and naturally selfish humanity.

And so, he analyses the reveries of the introverted man, precisely following that flattering complement.
The reserved man, intimately delighting the shadows of the common man, undetected for the most part, who fellow selfish humanity deem him devoid of this attitude, the ‘air of self importance’, appears somewhat embarrassed and maybe to an extent faintly agitated to be in the spotlight, the observer finds, inwardly, he feel nothing of that nature!
His mannerisms an instant afterwards, specifically that low chuckle following shied dismissive remarks are something of a giveaway revealing his secreted self-important trait.
The observer notes that the introvert’s man brightened disposition is very much insight that he derives amusement when his mere self is subject of conversation, and perhaps a signal beckoning further complements.
And so our observer notices that the man, willfully (not by the gods’ influence), spends his entire life indulging in events and engaging humans that excite this feeling of a recognised self so that, again and again, and certainly forevermore, obtain a teenist taste of the joy of importance and revel in its delight!

The observer’s general temperament becoming more moody, he shall then attempt to find the selfless man in preachers, preacher of all the gods.
Here, his soul shall shudder, for the teachers, too in possession of this disease, preach of their gods whose doctrines, enwritten by selfish men, demand a devotion for moral perfectionism, stressing upon it as a wholesome means, a discriminatory ticket of some sort, of congragating to an eternal place so affectedly shrouded in secrecy.

This is to say, and as the bored observer draws from his analysis, humanity is forced to live in some constant state of existential incompleteness, to supplicate, to endure, to follow commands from revered, inspired, holy and selfish men, to be told by stories of the olden age what to do, without ado, in this modern world, in the hopes that they shall take with them their former attitude, their selfish personalities, so principally shaped by this disease, to that place.
And that their gods, once bringing a man to this accursed and lonely place as a test of endurance and belief, from the non existent darkness that they once were, the man shall always designedly be held prisoner, never to go back to the beloved non existence!

But, perhaps they are right, the observer shall think, for all great stories are rooted in truth.

And all these, as all his observations, the observer shall keep to himself, alone.
For the observer knows all the stories of their gods, and in them, cruel ends is destined for all men who not only devise but conceive notions of unsettling foundations laid by the holy men.

And so this observer, suffering so intensely from this fever, shall conceive that to live is not in itself divine.
Instead, a clever incomprehensible practical joke.
For he shall see also, with utmost clarity, the ingenious performance that is human interactions.
In his reflections, simultaneously, he shall observe that the Shrewd gods created perfection breathless to behold.
Actors, performers and judges of extraordinary skill!—-,Primarily inspired by this disease to that quick exclamation of, “There, there! He defied the will of the gods!”,
“See now, see now! He should have acted according to…. (Here they quote a text from the stories) and that is why… “, and other similar expressions to that poor faltering performer possessing an element of rebellious personality (a creation of the same gods I suppose), who intentionally, out of boredom of constantly suppressing his blasphemous thoughts, chooses to forget his script.

And the observer, settling the question of this disease, shall, in equal measures,loath and love the Shrewd gods.
For creating the selfish disease that has the fashion of poisoning a possessor with rabid thoughts of eternal existence, and, for the time being in this Theater of the Shrewd gods, amusing him with such extraordinary performances, respectively.

And so, the observer, also a masterful actor, tired and retreating to his chambers at the days end after displaying an ingenious performance to the hosts of fellow actors and judges, his disease shall at least entertain his exhausted and tormented self.
Some nights, alone, before his contract at the Theater of the Shrewd gods expires, the observer shall laugh loudly and heartily (and he shall suppose they laugh with him too in that darkness) at a tale such as this:
Perfect Abandon.

This text is no way a violation of that revered doctor-patient confidentiality. Nor is it in pursuit of discreditation of a particular religious sect, installation of doubt toward them, transfiguration of humanity to unreligiousness or otherwise normalize it. It is simply an account of interations with one of my former patients, a writer, who ceased, by his own choice and right, to subject himself to the mortalities of this world, nor conform to its mere objectivities so conveyed in this text.
The subject referenced in this narration was one of my patients, and to quiet any suscpicion of privacy violation, I should mention the patient permitted conveyance of his mental disease to the general public.
Also, the subject willingly and, as he insisted to be stressed upon—gladly, admitted himself to this private mental facility, terming it ‘Perfect Abandon’.

Now, being one of the Resident Psychiatrists during the early and part of mid thirties, I there became assigned to a one Karl Turry. The then old man, in his late sixties, and of a seemingly kind heart, with so charming a sense of humor that to an outside observer, one would surely suppose he is of perfectly balanced disposition—hence with no doubt, think a mistake had been made by higher academia for such an agreeable gentleman to be compounded with mad men.

And, deducting from my first encounter then following interactions with Mr. Turry, my mind in those shared moments, too, seemed to arrive at that conclusion. That beyond any doubt, the writer was of stable state of mind and well acquainted with social ques in the same degrees.
In fact, results from rigorous general assessments as a result of one on one conversations (as with all patients a psychiatrist is assigned) depicted the gentleman’s aptitude more than average. His scores in mathematics, literature, linguistics, matters of state, and even basic psychology were surprisingly good that my assistant once made allusion to Mr. Turry’s brain being maddened with that disease of the ancient philosophers, the likes Socrates and Nietzsche.

Let it not be supposed, from what I have just said, that I haber some hidden adoration or admiration for Mr. Turry. Merely what this text is describing are symptoms of the writer’s diseased state of mind, of which I am yet to find a name for it. A mysterious disease that has both sharpened and destroyed his senses—all at once!

As for the chief symptom, which I can only describe as ‘opportune charm’, a personal example would best elaborate the disease in question. Mr Turry first came to my notice during a particularly strange ward round at the facility. You see, it being a facility for the mentally incapacitated, it is subject of constantly unpredictable states of chaos resulting from both unplanned noises and movements, sometimes rousing one’s discomforts to the extremes.

The subject, on the contrary,seemed to take an eager delight in attempts of calming the largely irritable and incapacitated patients, even as far as striking conversations with them.
I must admit, Psychiatry—still my current occupation–largely requires very strict cares upon those unstable patients; yet if I were to assess my own toward them at that time in relation to Mr Turry’s, I could only regard my cares as flimsy in the superlative degree of comparison.

And so, reluctantly, with a view not so much of assessing Mr. Turry’s state of mind but obtaining something of a know-how to on occasion, momentarily stabilise his fellow patients—a task that I had on occasion detested—, I approached his ward quietly so as not to startle the subject under my observation.
To tell you the truth, to a casual observer, his conversation with the fellow took shape a great deal similar to those of individuals regarded as of full mental capacity.
But, upon examination of an experienced psychiatrist, that particular conversation appeared remarkably similar to an interview. And to test my theory by inviting Mr. Turry for a routine private conversation in my office, I could not be further from the truth. Mr. Karl Turry was a connoisseur of information, seeking and trading words for a living. A con-artist! Allow me to expound.

When Mr Turry first entered my office, like all con-artists, he displayed a somewhat meek and humble persona, but unlike any other con-artist he was quick to point out that he was one even before I supplied the subject with a chair, and that he is in search for information. And that this ‘Information’ was his trade.

“Odd place to seek this information, don’t you think?” I asked.

“Oh no, a reverse, actually.The fact is, in my trade, the excessively odd and simple is of tremendous value.” Said Mr. Turry.

There was not a particle of insanity nor dishonesty about Turry’s disposition. But then again, it is was craft—this I thought.
He went on to confide of his secretive obsession—that he cannot resist penning all information of his conquests. Yet upon deliberation, my mind foolishly conceived that the society of such a man would be to me a treasure beyond price. I fancied myself submitting a research paper covering at length about his mental situation.

After all, I expected of my mind, that of an experienced psychiatrist, be doubly immune of Mr. Turry’s trickeries.
Besides, it was part of my employment to read into the patient’s dubities, make it known to them and then supply remedy.
Also, having already revealed to me of his peculiar occupations, sure as day I would be alarmed by the slightest suspicion of foul-play.

With these notions, it became more apparent that for sake of career progression, a con-man under my study would do more good than harm.
And so, it came to be that in the beginning of mid thirties, a Mr. Karl Turry acquired position of primary specimen of my private studies.

Not long after admission of the understudy, I found myself developing a fondness for Mr. Turry–a rabid particularity with his brains to be exact. It was the mere mechanism, the workings of his brains that I developed interest and a liking for.

With time, conversations with the subject, and of the subject with various and variable humanity became the source of my liveliest enjoyment. As I have already said, the fact that he was in possession of opportune charm was known to me. Through analysis of course, it was known, also, the basic structure of this opportune charm, that which beguiled every individual who came his way, including me.

As to this basic structure, Mr.Turry naturally presents such non appearance of intimidation that from that basic instinctive judgement characteristic of mind striving to acquire impression (as fused in our animal nature), one clearly infers they can best him in any measure of strength and wits.
There is a special companionship about this presentation, an observable inclination on the part of humanity interacting with him to be near true selves, opening up in distinct sincerity.
Perhaps we can credit this to his diminutive and gullible appearance.

The subject, however, is all too familiar this concept–that this weakness is the source of his greatest strength, and that is Deception. As a matter of fact, I find he relishes at silly displays of superiority in any conversation he partakes. To those who observation has become with them a species of necessity, like me, one cannot fail to notice his clearly hidden tricks. That which whenever attending to a dialogue, he knows the opportune moment when to trade a piece of meaningless but seemingly profound personal information, and without least delay redirect the conversation, and you the unsuspecting subject divulging more about yourself.

One stormy night, when hail stones rattled the roof of the facility, rousing a quantity of patients who inevitably, stirred the larger proportion of its occupants, yours trully included, causing momentarily, our awakening, a dreadful symptom of Mr. Turry’s disease came to be known thereupon.
Beneath the pressure of this disease, the symptom of existential madness, secretly became his sole intimates. So servere is this symptom that at length, lost in his imaginings, it appeared to convince him that since our lives, our personalities are creations of our own minds, then the gods must have made dwelling in a tiny fragment of the brains of man. More so, since mentally incapacitated men usually claim to hear voices inside their heads, he perceives this as the true voices of the gods!
And that this was the ultimate ‘Information’.
Excerpts titled ‘Selfish Men’ and ‘The Great Dance’from his notebook will best convey of this symptom of existential madness.

“Dearest Anansi, years of retrieval, penning and analyzing first hand information of humanity stained with Reason, it appears they have lost that voice of the gods, acting merely in the self-interest of eternal preservation, content for the most part to be told by society what to be done. And in this naturally selfish society—for one beggar dies of hunger yet another has in his possession an extremely abundant supply, one cripple in naked yet a preacher never repeats the same clothe, poor men submit set offerings to the preacherman, preachermen divided and selfishly striving to win selfish men into eternal salvation to selfishly please their gods, a man with two legs robs a man with one leg, a wealthy man drives by an orphage on his way to church to pray for even greater wealth, a man claims ownership of unused land piece that he cannot see it all in single sight yet his neighbour is homeless, a man is restricted to live in a specific part of this world dissallowed by borders set by selfish men, a man teaching a man to acquire power and yet hold it tyrannously, selfish men ruled by selfish men, selfish men raising selfish little children, a man teaching means to acquire wealth as a means to acquire wealth, a man with two legs and two feet rendered poor by selfish men scorning fellow poor men, a poor man stealing from a poor man—-and all this selfish men are taught by selfish men taught by other selfish men, and other selfish men, successively, the values and beliefs to be unquestionably adhered to.
All of them claiming their teaching voices from their gods.
And so, those favouring individuation, of a harmless nature ofcourse, contradicting the passed moral objectivities are regarded Sinful.
Setting in motion a society where almost every individual is a morality spy of his neighbour.
And the spy man, religious in his own right, and perhaps with firm faith of this sacred eternal existence, contradicts his belief by bringing forth an offspring in the lonely and selfish world driven by an unconscious selfish need to perpetuate his lineage, and live also through it.
Perhaps the spy society is fearful.
Fearful of the indiscriminate miller, Death, grinding and regrinding in his mill, nobles of great power, the hungry man, the faithful servant, the beggar, the blind man, the mightiest kingdoms, the innocent infant, some ancient gods, the man with one leg, the man with two eyes, and repeating this indiscriminate action eversince the world’s existence.
Perhaps they rightfully need their gods, after all.
Something good, and pure to believe in, even in the face of their mightiest dread, the Great Miller.
Something immortal.
Anansi, I highly suspect attempts by any totalitarian regime, to forcefully deny or change that belief of this naturally selfish society shall render the streets running with blood and pestilence.
Selfish humanity cannot live without its gods!

Dearest Anansi, by now, you must know I have acquired the courage of not fearing the Great Miller. My poor selfish soul is almost welcoming him!
For, gradually, I am learning to hear your unheard sweet melodic tunes of the gods in this Great Arena, and to dance beautifully to its current rhythms until the day the same gods get to decide its end. My end.
You know, also, of the promise that I made to my poor soul—I will not be the greedy dancer constantly unsatisfied with the tunes, nor the impatient one dancing ahead of the gods’ melodies in an attempt to reach its end quickest, nor the foolish one showing off his moves perceiving them better than everyone elses’,nor the poor dancer focused solely at the end of the dance (perhaps his dancing shoes are too tight and he should acquire a new pair, perhaps his technique is off, and he should re-invent his comfortable own, perhaps he is naturally lazy and he requires motivation from fellow dancers, perhaps he is weak and tired yet enjoys the dance and so he requires a helping hand once in a while, perhaps he is disinterested in the dance then he should be allowed to step out of the dancefloor, unjudged by fellow dancers).
And certainly I won’t be the slow one struggling to catch up to the tune.
Nor the self-imposing dancer forcing his moves down the throat of fellow dancers.
Nor the one constantly stepping onto other dancer’s shoes.
You know I am not a great dancer but given time, I will be the gentle one, high on life, listening keenly to the tune, and dancing perfectly in line with its rhythms, relishing at its melodies.
Perhaps, at the end, I shall marvel I enjoyed the dance.
Dearest one, make me into the greatest, and gentlest dancer to my last and only dance. Perhaps.”

You see, oftentimes, such as that particular night, whenever startled from my slugging nightly rest, I found myself so taken in by a habit of surveying the patients, and so much more upon my chief patient, Mr. Karl Turry. And by that time, usually, the subject is taken over by slumber with as complete a tranquil as is ever to be found in a sleeper untouched by haunting nightmares.

But on that night, I found Mr. Turry bearing close resemblance to creatures of nightmare drearies! And if not, then of an individual actively being haunted by one. Letting myself in after finding the door slightly unhinged, my eyes rested on a horror beyond my imaginable fancies. The individual being haunted, Denis, a young schizophrenic patient, who regrettably had lost his sight by accident long ago in the course of his stay at the facility, was strapped, tightly, on a wheeled hospital bed, as occasionally is done whistle treating uncontrollable patients.
Only that this time, Mr. Karl Turry, surprisingly unalarmed, the bedeviled physician in charge!

So tight were the straps that the only motions allowable were the chipper and playful expressions on poor Denis’ face, whose condition I suppose, prevented to conceieve that this operation was much out of normality. As if to complete resemblance to a brain surgeon about to embark his operations, he dropped into that comfortable attitude of an experienced physician by wearing gloves, the face mask, as a matter of fact, upon inspection of his sharp tools reposing on the table beside his schizophrenic patient, and whose bright reflections seemed to amuse his not at all terrified self, one would surely conclude the man of this slightly obscured room if not at all brain surgeon, he may be a little more than a general physician, and this difference very little indeed.

And so, as my eyes rested on these things, I became harrowed by the bright fixed attention our surgeon of the midnight dreary had bestowed upon Denis’ clean shaven head, and having been thoroughly satisfied, directed the scalpel with his right hand with purpose of making an incision in it.
The terror!—the rage—the insanity, in equal measures, measures more than demoniacal of a beast of harmful nature burning to inflict pain–, were too strong to be restrained.
No more could I stand inexpressible damnation!

Although I longed to destroy Mr. Karl Turry with a mighty blow, the gracious saviour, Reason, came to my aid, and at once came to my senses to perceive the situation as hostage. Lifting both of my arms up in the air, the universal means of surrender, I thereupon inquired of terms of surrender of the hostage.
Calmly staring into my eyes, and in this hostage situation one clearly solves that certainly he is psychotic in manner, he posed the following riddle, possing it as ‘Parable of the two beggars’.
And a clear, precise and definite solution would the exchange currency for Denis’ freedom!


For two men, both atheists, residing in opposite sides of town, a series of untold worldly events had reduced them to poverty— poverty that hunger constantly worked them down. Depressed, the unfortunate men each decided to be at the expense of the streets, as beggars.
The first beggar, took the North part of the town near a flourishing church as his abiding place, while the other settled on the narrow streets of the South riddled with offence and peopled with individuals who circumstance were more less embarrassed as his own.

And for months, their respective populations enabled them to procure necessities of life rather easily, that they accustomed not to trouble themselves with its luxuries.
One day, as something of a coincidence, both men were approached, separately, by separate persons seeking to convert them to their respective religions.
The reader should keep in mind the beggars possess no prior concept of submission to a deighty. Also, that the only existencial knowledge with them is that Death is the only means to an end of it all, their suffering included of course.

The beggar in the North, approached by a preacher was told of a god who was not only aware of his misfortunes but the sole cause of it. Sporting a charming smile, he goes on to state that it is in scripted in his religion, any man once informed, passively or actively, like he was currently being, of this deighty and refuses to yield to his submission, is guaranteed a great deal of eternal suffering. Even so, any believer of this petty god, failing to uphold en written guidelines, is destined for the same eventuality. But, there is reward of eternal existence for any man, non descript, who abides by his rules, he reassures the slightly shaken beggar.

The one in the South, came in contact with a pickpocket, and as was his daily routine, asked for the usual scanty necessities.
Rudely and reluctantly, the pickpocket dropped to him a penny.
And as he crawled for it as it rolled away, the pickpocket did not hesitate to lecture him of his religion.
In detail, he preached of his god who was at once both in favour and not of any, for humanity. And that humanity is demanded to take charge of its destiny and survival. Yet, Chance, Fortunes, Misfortunes and Death befall any individual at the god’s wishings, at any instant. The beggar is, too, a little petrified of this chanceful god. But, the pickpocket reaffirmes his belief of there existing no life after death.
Which of the men became a convert?
Thinking for a few minutes, I cleverly responded,

“None, the preacher and the pickpocket included.”

And with answer a one Mr. Karl Turry disappeared never to be seen again.
‘To live is to be selfish!?’

‘Redefine what it means to be human?!’

‘Shooting broken arrows into the darkness?!’

This the observer shall think, directed at the Shrewd gods, before finally shutting his eyes to a dreamless slumber.
Safe, safe from that terrible disease!

The Novemberist


Once upon a cold November, back in my native country, when the nightly winds were wild as though possessed by a certain life-like temper, and, if so, the temperament of an evil spirit denied rest, a sequence of events rendered it necessary that the Grand Duke be assasinated by my hand. This stirred spirit, I say, loitering and finding no rest, settled on the twenty ninth of dear old eighteen hundred and thirty—and I then, constituted of such highly irritable individuality, as a destructive teen might do, as the chief reposing host. It should be apparent to the reader, in their reception of this, they ought not be naturally quickened by expectation of perfect recall, as memory of that mutinous night as decades gone by, has grown madly vague.

I was told that I would esteem it highly a clear conscience suppose I be so kind to explain of the immediate secretive events leading to, and of the uprising.    I am more than happy to divulge this rather famous conspiracy dubbed The Rise of the Novemberists.
Now, that very month of that accursed year, I highly suppose—-I am trying my best to indulge my obscuring memory to recollect—the fascist Grand Duke was ever at his worst and ever at his busiest than useless.
In those days, if not mistaken although I highly doubt, oftentimes the tyrant whom this revelation has resting interest deprived native citizens of their essential rights, replacing representation in higher authorities with those who suited his convenience. And when he made an end of these labours, he dispatched his troops to kill unarmed men, women and children in the name of suppressing rebellion.

For my own part, these and other similar topics of uneasiness characteristic of a tyrannical regime, I now slightly remember, roused a certain dislike for the Grand Duke. And at length, an immense desire nearer to obsession than in the deepest sin of the flesh I had ever partaken, was excited in me to want to indulge in that quick mistake taking the form of Lead.

So then with a view satisfy this need, I take a fancy that in the audacity of my rebellious nature—my distinguishing trait as I have already said, I drafted myself into the army. At the moment, I take a solemn consideration that I am not far from the truth. Often there’s something rebellious within me—like now, as if yielding to this impulse, I cannot rid myself of the warm thoughts of that addictive feeling of lighting a cigarette, tossing the matchstick out the window, swallowing the smoke into my now near dead and collapsed lungs, then pausing perversely in time into a state of delightful content, despite quite frequent doctor’s warnings.

And as the days declined into months in army training, it appears, this hatred toward the Grand Duke took a toll on me, and I succumbed to their pressures. I am at a loss how else to define, that without a slightest remorse, I would desperately want a human–conscious and living being–flesh and blood–made in the image of the Most High–dead by my own rifle. Even so, relish at this thought—that if my wishes holds, squash his dead human heart beneath my boots, like one does with a mere insect! I became the particularly wretched beyond wretchedness sort (this I cannot forget) principally occupied with destinies of killing the Grand Duke, who is now so long dead, so long gone.

A singular event that stimulated a final irrevocable blow, no doubt about it, to this outwardly perceptible loss of my humanity—since at merest mention of his name in my presence would inspire in me a rigorous tremble of anger as of an agitated animal and a sudden reflex of my fore-finger to the trigger, even in my sleep! —was that this filthy tyrant with as complete a greediness for control as is ever to be found in a coloniser who has just lost two of, according to him, legally owned states, had plans, in clear violation of our sovereign consitution, to use our army–me included—a deadly foe—the squasher of his heart if I may—to regain control of them from the revolutionarits.

Bust me if you think I stayed this normality any longer!

On that fateful night in which the tormented spirit took its place in the calender as its dwelling, overcharged with a desire to kill the Grand Duke, from a clean shot—instant and certain death—to the temple be specific, for which I had been practising for months, and months, charged a squad of trusted comrades— whose names and faces, too, sadly have faded from memory— to no more definite purpose than mutiny, treason and above all, glory.

Strange fact to relfect upon; Mortal life in its early appointments blesses you with memories and absurdly recalls most of them back in its approach to old age.
As to this, it is quite difficult to wilfuly confide with all certainty of how I, putting myself in the fair way of getting shot and killed by the Palace guards as significant scores of other Novemberists were, managed entry to the Grand Duke’s inner chambers without a scratch.
In short, let it not be foolishly said after my death that this Novemberist has a particular hidden interest in withholding secrets of that mutinous and glorious night.
Now, in his remarkably large chamber there was no skimpy glorified towel of a carpet as the current in my death-bed chambers, no! instead, many coloured furs, rich silky beddings that seemed to massage the back of a sleeper every night and most of all, jewels dripping with from the high Victorian ceilings to that richly carpeted floor.

It seems this observation stimulated the agitation more than demoniacal; since I remember a violent tremble of every fibre of my being in its full effect, transporting me straightaway into that perfect place: A world I had lived for the previous few months. This world contained only two things: Me and the Grand Duke.
I suppose in that moment, he knew that too.

And so, defenseless, the Grand Duke’s terror went into the extremes—-this I remember, for the healthy colour of his skin knitted itself into nervousness, despair, desperation, and I suppose, that distinct loneliness only experienced by individuals closest to death, clawed upon his fancies.
This circumstance, however, only ignited what I liked, and what I liked was the Vengeful Death and nothing like Sentiment. So that I, vessel of the Vengeful Death, advanced toward him with that very intent of drawing life. And I was more than happy to excecute it.
In truth, I was no much else!

So then according to my recall, the poor man knelt before me, visibly shaking and clasping his fingers about his knuckles, as if in supplication to the Most High. I rather found this most unnecessary; as a matter of fact, this deed, this blasphemous manner only served to exasperate my madness to supreme!
Oh, how can I forget. Worst! He implored Mercy!
This much disagreeable word compelled an odd interest to carve out his inhuman heart—the very object I was in search for—that hideous thing that had caused me agony! —the very source of his darkly nature! and as for this, I needed to quickly release him of this burden.

Of a sudden, my eyes glanced on a furry creature reposing idly upon the silky sheets, quite oblivious of his master’s troubles. It looked different, somehow. So I looked at it with utmost scrutiny. The cat appeared to be deprived of its tail, and a leg, and was of black colour. Moreover, upon further inspection of this strange unalarmed creature, a white–ish shade on its front left leg.

Alas! It was the former pet which, my regretted father, finding it most disagreeable, had habitually offered it personal violence. And at length, after being the sole cause of its missing phyisical features, abandoned it on the streets far away from home.
I had loved this creature dearly! Oh, a favourite among my pets; so that now, in my death-bed, I still have memory trully accurate of my black cat. Medusa was the name I had cleverly bestowed upon it, because of its steady gaze.

Thus came the uncontrollable tears, and all my lost humanity back with them. I wept. Wept because, this Grand Duke presented, at that moment, an empathetic figure—a reverse of what I had grown into–vengeful, hateful, disturbed, infact, to a bigger extent than his, a darker and heavier heart! If at all I was to carve out his, mine should have been done yesterday.
He also loved the creature, and as all animal lovers do, expected none in return. I remember feeling somewhat shame–a sense of inferiority from the poor man. This revelation has to otherwise come this rather abrupt conclusion since, as I had already said, memory has a tendency to acquire the impermanency of mortality; and as is expected of mortality, all is destined to be dead, and gone, and dust—for instance, myself in a few days, and likeliest, thousands of thousands after me, by the hands of other men.

I suppose that it is due to this encounters that a notion came upon the brain of clever man—like the Solomon upon the brain of a sleeper, that when the masters of yesterday have passed, the master of tomorrow will express this new sense of the futility of war.

We must, nonetheless, always remember those who pay the ultimate sacrifice for freedom—Our heroes. The fallen ones.
Even, and especially when wars are lost.
We must remember.