Perhaps I could find something like joy breathing the dust of old books written by men long dead; maybe, just maybe, I could learn whatever occult secrets that gave those who lived in the twilight realm I found myself in the strength to keep living. Sadly, the poets all discussed the joys of erotic love. They may have done so through metaphor, they may have pretended to have aspired to something greater than the sensation of another person's skin upon their own, but eventually you can't help but notice the eternal thread winding its way through every work of philosophy, poetry or art. Though Dante harrowed Hell led by grim Virgil, he was able to do so because the loveliness of Beatrice was forever before him. Faust may have sold his soul in a wild gambit to learn the mysteries forbidden to men but it was the Eternal Feminine, the experience of which the vast majority men enjoy, and consequently take for granted, that rescued him from Lord Satan's grasp. You eventually realize that every single one of Nietzsche's aphorisms, supposed misogynist thought he was, was guided, inspired and informed by his unrequited love of the brilliant and beautiful Lou Salome.
To live in seclusion, to try and find beauty in isolation, has always been unnatural and always will be. Though cursed with the appearance of monsters, we abominations still have the spirits of men. We feel ourselves compelled to conform to the dictates of the creator God who said, in His infinite wisdom, that no man was meant to be alone. If called upon to indict Him for the crimes of either ineptitude or cruelty, we will always be able to offer ourselves up as undeniable evidence in the case lodged against Him.
