Who are you?
Is she Lorenza Pellegrini to my Jacopo Belbo?
This isn't Foucault's Pendulum, my friend. This is real life. There is no hermetica to wade through, no crackpot manuscripts to edit. The gibberish you see is of my own hand. The arcana is not arcane. I am not an adept; there is no Plan.
You are not Sophia. You are not the saint and the whore. No, you are someone else.
Why do you haunt me like this? Will you be taunting me forever, teasing me, condemning my ego?
Or is it all in my head?
Who are you?
Are you my nemesis? Or are you who I was to be? Are you the opportunities missed, the possibilities ignored? Are you who I am not?
Why did you have to come into my life like this? Why do you torture me so?
I am not Jacopo Belbo. You are not Lorenza Pellegrini.
No.
Who am I?
I am no one. I am not an adept. Not the trumpet, but a humble bombardon. In the background.
I will forever be the intelligent observer, not the protagonist of the novel of life.
I am no one. You are someone.
Yet they tell me you reside in an ivory tower. They tell me that you will fall from such a height. They tell me I am lucky that I am aware. "You are lucky that you are not naive, not as naive as her."
But what I would give to be naive! What I would give to regain my credulity! I am no longer skeptical. I am cynical. I am a cynic. I don't believe in ivory towers.
I can't go up to your room, my dear. It is too high, and I hate heights. Why not come down?
But you will fall. You will learn. Not now.
I will not infect you with my cynicism. Go, go to your Aglie, your Comte de Saint-Germain.
Alas, you have no Aglie. Neither do I.
Previously: Ateneo— UAAP champs