There is no such a thing as universal, for everything – in form and content – differs, and by no means there is a possibility of grasping one's meaning. For words are faithless and shallow, sights insufficent to express or perform. Then how to think, talk, or go about? One might name this the absence in its entierty, but it is rather the fullness of matter. This congested state burdens the mind, and we are formed in silence, which materializes the images, by which we drive all kinds of affection and call it in unity – love. We fill this word with the utmost importance, because we believe it is the only possible thing that may connect us with the others – and in fact – it is quite so. But, as other things, this led many to believe love had a form, and a specific one – strictly defined and socially coded. So, one has a right to ask, how anyone should dare to reach for the unspeakable, natural cause of creation; the only mean of connection? For to define is to break, and to force is to destroy. It has been called morality, because the brutes did practice it, and still do so. What does stimulate the inhuman violence upon the soul? To cease the senses which enable us to feel, and shut the heart seems to be our cause of a long time. How did this fault befall us? What drove the man to **** his mean? We may stand differently, more truly to ourselves, if only we would allow to admit our own indivduality. Histerical cry for social unity is unnatural and ******: γνῶθι σεαυτόν. As there was a more natural state of yore, might inspire us to create a subsequent one. The world will change, and we will not break.
In memoriam Oscar Wilde