My entire life, my entire existence, all seems to circle around a single question, like water, swirling down a drain: Why? Why am I alone? Why do I exist? Why do I feel this pain? Why do I inflict this pain on others? Why does happiness always slip through my fingers? Why, why, WHY?
I am alone. I am lonely. I am loneliness. I sit on a small island, a single rock in a vast sea. In all directions around me, the horizon is naught but a churning expanse of blue. This is all I know of. I have never met another like me, someone with which to share these thoughts, these feelings, which I never asked for, but which impose themselves upon me, all the same. Does another such creature exist, or is it just me? Am I the only being in the whole of creation with these desires burning in her heart? I have never felt the touch of another, never shared in a passionate embrace, never known what it is like to love, or be loved. So why do I yearn for all these things and more? Why, why, WHY?
I am unsure. I am confused. I am confusion. How did I come to be? When was I born? Was I born? Or have I sat on this rock for an eternity that has come to pass? Will I sit here for an eternity that is yet to come? I cannot remember a time when I wasn’t on this rock. I cannot remember a time when I wasn’t yearning, pleading for someone to end this torment that I, and I alone, seem to face. Is there a purpose to my suffering? Is there a purpose to my madness? Do the gods, lurking just out of sight, somehow profit from my pain? Why must I feel this ache, without rest, without reprieve? Why, why, WHY?
I am anxious. I am desperate. I am despair. Perhaps I could accept my pitiful circumstances if I had no hope of alleviating my pain. Yet that hope is always there, just out of reach, dashed against the rocks I call home again and again and again. These hopes take the form of creatures, floating in great ships, propelled by the wind blowing on great, billowing sails as white as the clouds. These creatures do not look so different from me. When I see them, I know that they are the object of my want. My yearning for them may be all that keeps me alive. Yet, when I am reminded of how my desire can never be fulfilled, I cry. My sorrow moves my vocal cords as effortlessly as my heart moves the blood in my veins, and my song drowns out the steady beating of the tide on the shore. Why do I sing? Why is everything I do out of my control? Why, why, WHY?
I am deadly. I am dangerous. I am danger. These creatures, these men, they hear my song. And as I cannot resist them, they cannot resist me. They think it an invitation, when it is in fact a cry of sorrow, a warning of danger, a siren. They charter a course for my home, and my song will not cease, no matter how I wish it would. For these men find nothing in my home but their own deaths. Rocks, just beneath the surface, powerful currents just out of sight, tear their ship, their bodies, their breath asunder, until they are no more. And all I can do is watch, as my song becomes a funeral dirge, knowing that this will not be the last time, that these will not be the last men slain by my voice, by my powerlessness to stop it. If we so long for each other, why can we never meet? Why are they cursed with their mortality, and me with my immortality? Why, why, WHY?
I am sad. I am sorrowful. I am sorrow. At times I wonder. It is all I can really do out here. I wonder if it is truly me that they long for, or it is my voice, some imagined promise that is broken by the reality of me. Is it true that death chooses them, or do they choose death? When they see me, are they so repulsed that they would rather end their lives than feel my touch? Perhaps I am nothing like them. They are swarthy, bold, with armaments and armor, taking what they want and shaping the world as they see fit. But I am slender, fragile, and naked. I fear they could break me with a single touch. Or perhaps that is what I wish for? An end to my existence at their hands? Perhaps my mourning of their deaths is nothing more than envy. Perhaps I hate them as they hate me. Is it my fault that they find me so abhorrent? If I changed, would they accept me? If I changed, would I still be me? Do I want to change? Is that even possible? Why are the answers to these questions always beyond my reach? Why, why, why, WHY, WHY, WHY?