(optional atmospheric musical accompaniment)
I refuse to admit to myself that I have a diary.
And yet here I am writing in this journal.
Far less pathetic, I find, to call it a journal than a diary.
The word diary is hardly befitting a catalog for the musings of a grown man well into his thirties.
Thus, this is not a diary.
But nevertheless I find it has its… practical benefits.
After all, one mind can only contain so many thoughts, particularly if they’re all torturous.
Or mainly so.
A luckier man might have friends with whom he might bequeath his feelings. Like a parcel of despair delivered from one aching soul to another. But I have never been very lucky.
Once upon a time I might have said I had a friend. But this was long ago. So long, in fact, it hardly seems as though it really happened.
How long does it take before memories become fictionalized? Exaggerated beyond their origins and turned into recollections of the surreal and fantastic?
Rose-tinted glass, I suppose it’s called. Though I was never very fond of roses. Lilies, I much preferred.
Far gentler than their thorny cousins. Lilies are more fair and delicate than any other flower. And yet, deceptively resilient. I have never seen a more vivacious flower, determined to bloom even if the soil in which it finds itself planted is severely lacking.
Lacking it was and I’m afraid I’ve always been horrible at botany.
I’m hardly selling myself short in this regard, in addition to my abundance of talent in far more selective subjects I also possess a seemingly unending supply of malice and jealousy.
Consequently, my soil can hardly sustain a single life much less a garden.
A rotting tree seldom produces sweet apples regardless of what distance they might fall. Close; far; bruised flesh all the same. Dark and bitter, these apples are discarded in disgust in favor of their far sweeter and more succulent kind.
So, too, I was discarded.
Lilies are clever flowers, they defend themselves against all aspects of nature which threaten their radiance. Rotten apples have no place in their garden.
Then there are bees. Bees are filthy, necessary creatures. They pollinate all flora and, in return, sip leisurely on the sweet nectar as they perch themselves on flower petals and court their meal with all of the grace one might expect from a pesky insect wherein pollen and pain are prescribed in equal measure.
As it turns out, bees are also quite fond of lilies.
Endless stings from vicious bees have calloused my hands to gentle touches.
Which had always been undeserved.
Even the strongest lily can’t survive being fed poison instead of water without withering. A rotten apple bleeding pesticide into the very garden it held sacred and, in its foolish attempts to kill the bee which punctured it’s already bruised flesh, also harmed it’s precious lily.
The potency of tears are not enough to reattach fallen petals or revive a wilting bud.
The fruit is blasphemous to the flower; never again have I enjoyed its company. Inhospitality is the name of the garden which exists only in my heart and the soil is rich with vestigial venom nourished by mourning.
This is not a diary.
But perhaps it’s not a journal either.
Could it be a love letter? One would assume I had any capacity for the emotion.
A rotten apple can no more be a flower than the loathsome bee.
Is this an obituary? An epitaph?
Sincerity was never my forte but like lilies I, too, can be vulnerable from time to time.
Or maybe it’s a recipe.
What do you get from an infusion of asphodel and wormwood?
Living death. The perpetual state of my existence in the absence of any desire I might have had to live.
My dearest Lily.
You have my deepest regrets.