I am a fool. I couldn't choose not to be one if I wanted to; and yet I have the arrogance to think myself clever for the simple consolation that I'm not as foolish as to believe I'm not a fool. I was born to be one; it's in my bones, my blood, in every inch of my skin, in the memory of my ancestors, and no matter how far my intricate, intelligent, educated spirit tries to fly from this inherent foolishness, it's still chained to the ever victorious flesh - and no matter how elaborately I try to fool myself into thinking I can turn my back on it, it always reminds me of its needs in most painful for the mind ways.
And you, who are reading this, will think me a fool too for either losing this struggle or ever beginning it - but that is because your flesh is not my flesh. I was born ill, dear deader, a disease of the body rather than the mind, one no doctor or psychiatrist has yet discovered a cure for. I've sought, in vain, help in the advice of my family, friends, peers, lovers, in the writings of the immortal poets and philosophers, in various scientific and occult doctrines. And my disease, while mercilessly wrecking the foundations of the mind infused with all the solid morality of civilization, thrives in my body like a glorious cancer, transforming every cell of it into something beautiful. Beautiful: like all wrong things.
And what are the symptoms, you ask? Oh, they can be masterfully hidden underneath a cheap mask of powder and lipstick and the right garment, an elaborate camouflage and warpaint to lure the eye into seeing a being set on destruction - but beyond this foolish facade the disease grows ever so proud of itself, of its fearless vulnerability... and it manifests itself in one irrational, foolish desire: to love, to love, to love something worth loving. It's the disease of the poet who wants to be the muse; the craving that makes even the most educated of us patients fools for a chest to press our teary faces against, for blood from a fistfight staining a shirt, for a letter written in haste and confusion, for the look in the eyes of the representatives of that peculiar species, half animals and half explorers, screaming to love them, to fulfill our foolish purpose. To love them, them, who think themselves the beasts and us the angels, while really it's the other way around, for no matter what the mind does to keep the body at bay, it wants what it wants and hunts it, like a wild animal hunts its prey, and no more than it can it be domesticated. And that, my dear reader, is the wicked beauty of it.
My disease, you ask? I was born a woman.
And however cleverly the cleverest of us may fool themselves, we are beautiful monsters that will never be satisfied with being poets or warriors; we want to be written about, fought for. And while some of us are more drawn to the poet and others - to the fighter, some to the mind and others to the body - I assure you, my dear reader, that the most foolish thought of them all is to think that a perfect compromise can be made between the two.
The educated mind understands this and gives way to one over the other. But what good is your education against the love constantly dripping from our fragile bodies? What good are your books against the disease that, ironically, makes sense of this entire incomprehensible world?
Some say that love can never reach the perfection it demands. They are as right as they are wrong. For this, dear reader, is a story about poets and fighters and muses and, above all else, the extremely rare individuals in which all three come together.
Some say, among other things, that women do not know what they want.
I am a woman, dear reader, and a fool, perhaps. And, despite all my foolishness, I know what I want.