Narcissus’ Epilogue
A centennial has passed, as of yesterday, since the last time the river of possession to my orbs have rekindled with their successors. It is of quaint peculiarity for a hill to outlast its mountain. It is of pure atrocity for an ephemeral body to prevail over its Adonis. What say you, Narcissus?
Youth has held your bones closer, the sun has birthed golden wires and crowned you, and Neptune spared his most eccentric island as a canvas of imitation to your iris.
But your bones have now bent like an elder tree, the crown has grown spikes of thorns, and your blue has assisted the selling of your twin eyes. Your beauty turned into death. And you sailed, like a blackbird raising Cain, across the winds of a vain ocean. Neither here nor there, you entered the abyss gazing back at you. Water has betrayed you, but then again, when was water ever a comrade?
You attained false idols of pride at the cost of repletion. Your echo led you to incarceration in an oubliette of nebulous conviction. The pond conquered your lucidity, and the fog beclouded your apperception and imperium.
A century, I have stated, has fulfilled its trips around the moon. A crow would beseech, with grief, the trade of sight in exchange for kindred flesh. And a Daphne, guarding itself from the Apollo obscuring the soft clouds of this world, desires for its connecting venom to materialize in front of its sister blossoms.
It is the making of the solar system and its celestial bodies’ interconnectedness that has sparked twins’ telepathy, the moon and the tides, a woman and her jewelry of a mortal body, the flesh and the blood, and the tight origin of all waters.
I must not blame you, Narcissus, for your continents were thirsty for more sheltering baptism, and the pond revealed itself like a doe to an ophidian on a winter night. I must blame what you are made of. All the melting snow and the devoted rain were never meant to wash away; desire is the greatest forms of destruction.
The desire to end this separation took you away, and before you knew it, your insides turned against the very pedigree they were supposed to preserve. If the outside deems you enemy, thunder is fair. However, for an ancestral tree to have its branches fractured means the epilogue of the roots.
As we took you a man of hollow capital, we magnified that which supposedly circulates your blood as if it was of constitution to you. How much is blood worth if water overthrows any other dynasty in the body of a huntsman? Could it have been you, or the roaming waters of despair to connect? What meaning does it hold when your wish and your body’s are not an inseparable herd?
So, you framed the portrait of decadence as a shrine of reverence, and your gold rusted, and the blue turned into a bruise. Narcissus, I know not of your circumstances for tales are often than not short and forthright.
Know this, if you must, of how paradoxes exist because of you. That a woman’s sheer form is doomed in puerile definition as they are gazed upon by themselves and the polar of you. The myth set you as a man of gendered frame, touched only by the iciness of a freshly taken-away soul.
Your arrow has turned around the moment you abused your hand slightly, and your bow returned to its descendant form for it was once used to feed the same way it was fed and murdered by you.
Yet as the myth stands tall, so do you. As you are crucified in one end, you are born and risen again in another. Fear not, your reflection has ended you, and like an apocalyptic night, given you seeds of scarce life.
You once ceased, and your dust collected itself to hold transformation. You became what each green is scant without, an escort of eulogies, a bride’s regalia, a garden’s diadem. A beauty that no eye can overlook, that no sun can forsake. A blonde that no soil can leave anxious for air or taken by drought.
The two adverse extremities that have fallen upon your wild nature: A deadly sickness, a luxurious beauty. And you dare say, Narcissus, that we have failed you, but I visited your garden last night, and you appeared to my vision as perennial. It was the blood of the mortals that cherished you.
If it was up to me, Narcissus, believe me: I would have never let the waters sail me away. I cannot be deluded by any reflection; the marauders have always foretold apologues and oracles to my nude sphere. I was made to analyze and view them all in parts. None of this has tied my arms back from caressing the muse that is me in that pier mirror. I have taught the abyss, after all, how to admire its own internal, morbid darkness. As do I.
Narcissus, you can never be me, and your water can only dream.
