For What Did The Creator

I Love Enemies, Though Not In The Christian Way. They Amuse Me, Excite My Blood. Being Always On One’s Guard, Catching Every Glance, The Significance Of Every Word, Guessing At Intentions, Frustrating Their Plots, Pretending To Be Tricked, And Suddenly, With A Shove, Upturning The Whole Enormous And Arduously Built Edifice Of Their Cunning And Schemes—that’s What I Call Life.

Happy People Are Ignoramuses And Glory Is Nothing Else But Success, And To Achieve It One Only Has To Be Cunning.

Afraid Of Decision, I Buried My Finer Feelings In The Depths Of My Heart And They Died There.

I Was Modest--they Accused Me Of Being Crafty: I Became Secretive. I Felt Deeply Good And Evil--nobody Caressed Me, Everybody Offended Me: I Became Rancorous. I Was Gloomy--other Children Were Merry And Talkative. I Felt Myself Superior To Them--but Was Considered Inferior: I Became Envious. I Was Ready To Love The Whole World--none Understood Me: And I Learned To Hate.

My Love Had Grown One With My Soul; It Became Darker, But Did Not Go Out