On this dark, cold evening, with my pencil in my hand, I wonder: will a man ever grow tired writing about the pain of love? Will he ever grow tired of writing of the joy that love brings? Will a man ever grow tired of writing and of love? No, yes, no, yes,...
"His spirit could not accept having lost her, his soul could not be satisfied anymore."
I have always thought of this sentence as weird. How special could a girl be to a man that he would have his soul hurt so bad, how can there not exist someone equal or better than just that girl.
The only explanation I can come up with for his broken spirit, his ruined soul is that he is in love with a ghost, an image of a perfect specimen. What human being could have the power that a phantom does? A female ghost, a female spirit must be the most powerful force on earth, that seems obvious to me.
But does it exist? The perfect woman doesn't, let's just state that as a certain thing. But I'm intrigued by the existence of the female spirit, the image of perfection created in a man's mind.
How does this come to life? How does a man construct this perfection, and can such a spirit come to life?
I hope to find the answer somewhere in my head, my heart, my soul. And the only way to get there is to write down the history of Ansgar & Cassiopeia.
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