Mistrusted Mistress

"All tragedies are exercises in despair," she said, falsely. Tragedy is void of all hope. It is dependent on the inherent and inexorable reality of a never-ending catastrophe. Tragedy is all dissonance, but despair is different. It sees the light at the end of the tunnel. It knows the way out but can't find it. Despair is both hope and gloom. It must be, for that is how the artist is tormented. It is the notion that, while seated before the world's beauty, one can't help but imagine its demise. It is the dread of vacation's end, the fear of death. Despair is every dream that lies unfulfilled, haunting one's sleep and ruining waking life. It is unsummited mountains and uncrossed oceans. It will break the heart of brave men and steal the spirit of the sun. Despair is seeing the truth but knowing only what is false. It both captivates and decapitates. I am an artist and I am tormented. Despair is my mistress.