"And even in our sleep..."

The Remorse of Orestes (1862)
by William Adolphe Bourguereau

"And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God."
- Aeschylus

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(disclaimer: written in anger, sorrow, jealousy and frustration after one of the worst night's of my life...still, I stand by what is said, even if the spirit in which it is said is uglier than I should allow--- venter's venting venting... no one reads this shit anyway...bah!)
Truly, I feel haunted by the estrangement of my former love. Grim moments when I am jilted awake from my slumber; tormented by, dare I say, an almost psychic-connection made real through my years of loyalty (twinning). And in those dark hours when I try to sleep peacefully after an honest day of reflection and right effort; after exerting myself during the waking hours to maintain my mindful existence--at night I am repeatedly victimized. I am left helpless--- accosted in my dreams in repeated rejection, but there has been two such times where I might be so compelled as to reason that the actual dread that stirred me from nightmares of her engaging in loveless carnality--- what on my end manifests itself as physical pain and suffering, really is, in actual fact, something that solely occurs in unison with the empty, physical ecstasy she now partakes of so easily, with such undear confidence, blindness and nonchalance. Still, I'll take it. I take it all. It's 'positive' in the sense that I am always receiving information, I absorb each blow and each disappointing message. For each stab my heart receives it helps me realize the power I have, the integrity I retain by my own emotional might in feeling grief; my understanding of true beauty, of tragedy and respectfully appreciating loss. I mourn because I can, because I am capable of mourning, I see it as a virtue. The inability to mourn, well, I see it as beyond shameful, but it's an ugly truth I'm getting used to. Such discourteous rejection paired and so mercilessly synchronized with the aforementioned "sex/stab" unison is but one more tool I plan to utilize. And so again, the truth, by 'psychic-connection' or 'dreadful anecdote', painstakingly removes the saintly beauty I created about her; that same self-sabotaging illusion that so wildly deceived me, well, she is weakening, indeed 'by the awful grace of God.'