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From Waytt to Henry

[going from Henry VIII's daring wishes (could have he been denied of certain desires only for being the King of England, oh, can't a man desire, for crissake?), to Anne Boleyn's guilty in the roll, jumping to Charles Bukowski, Van Gogh, Hitler and looking for my place in the garden of History]


| Henry's love letter to Anne |

Previous Note: Waytt was the last man in Anne Boleyn's life before Henry VIII, and the rest of the story I will trust everyone else should know.

For she couldn't find in Waytt's poetry the purity she seeked, purity she chose to find only in noble blood. And noble blood, as known, rushes throughout the veins like no other, and its ones personal treasure, but poetry... Well, words rush in everyone's mouth, they can be arranged in every way by anyone. So which shall she have picked, dear Anne? Your mind, your presence, like no other, rushes throughout History as ones only treasure. Some might say you have mislead England's history, I say opposite. I say fate is the only constant in every line of History, and you had fate working for you, for your eyes could the king not have enough from distance. and so the eyes of our poor Catherine close with a stab, and you walk through the room, dispousing a man's love, a king's love. Anne, were you searching purity, dear?

And you, Henry, a true Gemni. Going back and forth with France, haven't you? You never really knew your mark, you needed double. Double sides, double wives, double affairs, more boats. You couldn't satisfy yourself with the unique, for you know, out there lived a better one than the unique. You were the true Gemni in History, and made yourself immortal, no doubt.

I sincerely admire too much those who made of their Lives exactly what they wanted and all the others feared or had only not the necessary courage (yes, there is a slight difference betweent these), to put in words. What's so grand about this courage? Is that not all of us have it. I can name some of my heroes: Van Gogh, because he painted exactly what he felt, more of a reflex, than some math-o renaissance work (I don't understimate it, no), and he broke the barriers and woke up during a frozen night, telling himself "I want to leave", then shot himself, and made of life what he truly believed, he left, let's say he even tried to please his family, but he kept looking, during a whole existence, a reason to stay alive, so he wandered around Europe and he could barely find it. Another one would be Charles Bukowski, for he has written what everyone else thought was useless, he wrote every word with no filter, trying to please only himself, hating other poetry-men, he made of life what he truly believed, because he cursed everyone there was to curse, he walked every street there was to walk and he couldn't help but be himself. Hitler, oh, let History make its point, but he, like no other, gave birth to his ideals, and I do not care wether were they good, wether could they have been bad, they were his dreams that he fought to make true. And last but not least, King Arthur, who dared Rome because his beliefs in honor were too great for him to be some catholic roman servent, let's say "he fought the power". Oh, and, Bethoveen, he also fought the classic, and built a new bridge so music could keep walking through a new path, he couldn't care less about critics. Neither could all these men care less about any critic, they did only what they thought was to be done, made of life their own guiding boat. For they were the captain, no doubt.

And so I wake up everyday telling myself "this is life, I won't throw it away", because I know these men have lived it like they trully believed, and now dear Henry entries my Admiration Hall (am I really naming this?), to stay. I daily have to use a part of my courage, when the subject going-to-live-in-Russia takes the table, I see I have some of the courage my heroes had, because as far as I know, I'm the only daring enough person to even give this crazy moving out idea a start, yes, I'm making of life exactly what I want. And the great part of the matter is that I like it, very much, indeed.

What I mean, shortly, is that you don't need anyone else's courage or support to keep going with your own ideals and dreams, if you have yours only, then you already have a ship filled with sailors, even if you're the only living soul in the ship, you are the sailor of yourself, you are the captain of youself, it's so easy to just careless for everyone else's opinion about your choices and what you do to yourself, because it's who you are. When I see someone holding down their dreams I think "what for? Your dreams are your choices, your choices are who you are, are you so ashamed of who you are? What's the world to care? Leave it, live it!", but I never really get the chance to deliver the message, let's say I'm sort of... Always sailing around. And it's an angry sea, but it's a living dream...

Let's take Mrs Dalloway: she bought the flowers herself!

I honestly never intented to live the life everyone else expected me to live. I'm not a robot, I have a pumping heart, a working brain and a full book shelf, they tell me what to do.

So upset, yes, I am. There's this exhibition of Henry's letters to Anne in the British Library, until September, and I'm afraid I won't make it there, for in this moment I should be walking around Russia instead, England comes right after, but just not precisely in time to see my dearest hand-writings (yes, his, I do not think he would have let any other write those letters).

And so I come back to the title of this writing, because Waytt had metrics to follow, he had catholic church telling him what was imoral, what was not, he had his hands on cuffs, the worst kinds of cuffs, these invisble cuffs of tabus. And then there's Henry, unsteady Gemni, with an unsteady king's heart, no rules to follow, only the rules he created himself to himself. And still you blame Anne? Who else would she choose? Well, Boleyn was one of mines, she chose the path she couldn't see the end, because living to see it take shape is the best part. For she stayed with Waytt would she only have lived in metrics, hearing the poetry she would learn to unlike, but Henry... in Henry she found the unsteady reality and unpredictableness that makes life worth the living.

Oh dears, you make my heart pump throughout history books, I can even picture your eyes while reading them. Even dirty Charles, who's not in them, but should be.

Well, would some one give this man some space, then?

Charles, dear, here's your seat!

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