None of this is novel or imaginatively new. This blog-post, like so many before, amounts only to a dreary rehashing of the same old miseries. Self-pity, self-loathing, inane posts on a blog with a dark template – these masochistic pantomimes constitute some of the only solace now available to a kitschy, emo, pulp Orpheus as hopelessly disconsolate and disoriented as ever in the absence of beloved Eurydice.
The pathos is of an especially puerile variety, the kind that gives in to the obvious temptation of using ribaldry to mock the earnest inadequacies of the Orphic seeker. Eurydice sits ensconced and secure in the arms of her powerful new paramour, the King of the netherworld himself; and doesn't find it to require too much effort to laughingly dismiss the poesis of yearning as just so much more delusionary self-love. Orpheus is obviously neurotic to love her so much; and indeed, this entire soul-seeking-soul discourse of love is in any case hogwash designed to make up for the absence of the real thing. What was this 'love' supposed to be like anyway? Being all too earthly (i.e. grounded), normal and human, she took pride in the fact that the tangible, skin-salt-muscle-sweat love she and Hades were now making was her only really felt encounter with love. Platonic yearning for the beloved? Bullshit. 'Ineffability' is just a metaphysically clever way of saying that nothing remotely like soul-love actually exists. The moment of orgasm is the only true instant when mankind can justly claim to have fleetingly achieved unity with the sublime and the transcendent.
There is a macabre magnetism to the grief. You are the moth, you are the flame; you are alive, every passing minute immersed within rings of hellfire burning out the fat of optimism and dreamed of happiness from your frame until there is sinew, hardened bone, and language left to populate the wilderness.
Everything that could have been done has been done. As you had secretly known and feared throughout, it has been in vain. There is no point in trying to imagine what the present is and the future are going to be like. Reality is almost certainly likely to be degrees worse than the worst your mind can imagine. It is tempting to grasp at straws sometimes; to will oneself to believe in the soul's goodness and hope. This delusion doesn't retain its usefulness very long.
Any proposition of hope has a formidable array of risks hardwired to it. You hope, breathe in some positivity from a memory of past happiness; but what this effectively means is that you crash down that much harder when reality eventually comes around to greet you. Makes more sense to start loving the despair that surrounds you for what it is. With time, you become familiar with your demons; you gloat in the cloying stench of your self-pity; closing your eyes, you meditatively surrender to the apathy that is now the stand-out feature of all your effort and enterprise. And so on the druid's cauldron boils.