My failure
My failure in life is easily explained. I refuse to be respected and loved by fools. The foremost among the rabble is beloved of the Devil. Never will I water-down my truths to make them palatable to the herd. If one is popular with the Devil one cannot at the same time be his mortal enemy. Never will I allow my Truth to be covered over and buried beneath a mountain of dirt, which is humanly known as praise.
My failure with women and in love is even more easily explained. For I refuse to sell myself. To sell yourself is to diminish yourself, and to beg for help from fools and intellectual insects, I mean women. There is little wrwong with being weak, shamelessly weak, when you know nothing of God. Indeed weakness and shamelessness would be expected. But to know about God, and to have his infinite strength in your grasp, and then to openly flaunt your rejection of Him by declaring yourself bankrupt and seeking your salvation in the arms of a woman - this is deplorable.
The wise man seeks life, but woman is suicide. The man who feels responsible for the survival of the species, and sees himself as an example to the young, is not proud to shoot himself in the head.
I can fantasize about women. Even better I can fantasize about women with other men. But the thought of engaging in love with a woman in real life, and holding a woman's hand, is a little too flagrantly degrading to myself and harmful to the world. If I felt a woman's hand in mine I would be forced to think: Why do I need this touch? Am I yet an animal? Why do I need this creature's approval? Am I yet a child who needs his mother's nod, and his mother's bosom? Why am I flattering this person's ego? Do I not wish to help them to dismantle their ego and become enlightened? Why have I stopped speaking and thinking, and forgotten all my words except for love's vocabulary of fifty pre-human words, sighs, grunts and squeals? Why have I abandoned my ideals, my future, my fellow man, my soul, and returned to the crude, rudimentary mind I had when I was nine years old? Do I prefer painful childhood dependencies? Why am I retreating into this dark, dirty, and impulsive recess of the brain, sacrificing the rest of my consciousness forever?