Iago

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparell'd in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;—
Turn wheresoe'er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

I'll admit I have been feeling more than slightly nostalgic lately. And that nostalgia has affected my mood. Whether it is the atmosphere or the events of the past few weeks, I cannot be sure. But whatever has brought on this fit of partial melancholy has caused it to continue, despite my best efforts to counter it. Hence the poetry. Perhaps I simply needed to write it out. Cast it from my mind like some sort of unwanted parasite.

But I do adore poetry. And I have noticed that there are some who are willing to share without prompting. But here is my prompt. Lighten the mood with words.

[Private to Lucius]

It didn't take long for you to test his patience, did it? What a pity.

[Iago doesn't seem well.There are dark circles under his eyes, since he hasn't slept since the night before the flood started. Paranoia isn't a good look for him. Especially this sort of paranoia, which is the same kind he was inflicting on Othello for so long. The paranoia that he's being betrayed behind the scenes. It's been getting worse since the start of the flood. Things aren't so funny anymore.]

It's a cycle. All of this. A cycle.

A wheel. [He gives a manic little chuckle.] What, then, do we believe ourselves capable of? What, then, do we believe we can achieve with so little work? To escape this cycle of betrayal? [He says that word with more than a hint of bitterness.]

I should have known. It always comes to this.

Why are you here, inmates? Why do you play by their rules? You know that you cannot trust anyone.

Consider those of innocent minds, this advice once given.

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,
Old Time is still a flying:
And this same flower that smiles today,
Tomorrow will be dying.

Dying. Not dead. Not alive. Dying. In the process of death. We can deviate from the rest of the poem to this one particular point that, admittedly, is quite off topic, but still interesting.

Even with more time, that same flower would still be dying, wouldn't it? A depressing image. No matter how many times you turn back the clock, no matter how many times you go back, you're always heading towards the same inevitable end.

So what does it matter? 

[Private to the Marquis]

Have you given any consideration to the request I made of you several weeks ago?

What is friendship? True, selfless friendship?

I thought I understood once. But I always knew it was wrong. I always knew I was wrong.

[Private to the Marquis]

I have reached the lowest point, I believe. I think there is really no way to go but up. At least, that's what I keep telling myself. I'm just tired of it all. Tired of being frustrated, tired of fighting against you. I am even tired of Harry, as you have probably surmised already. Being a child again did nothing save for remind me of what I am not. I want things to be as they were at home, where I knew what was going to happen. Where I had some kind of control.

I have no control here.

I am finished.

I have heard it once said that a mirror does not lie. That it reveals the best and the worst of a person, without judgment, without fail. Perhaps this is true in most cases. Perhaps in most worlds. But not here.

Yet another thing the Barge is not consistent on.

I hate this body.

( Private to the Marquis and Judas )

[Private to the Marquis]

My life...a spider's web of lies and deceit. I was the spider, spinning the web to keep myself from falling too far in. I caught so many other lives in that net, twisting them about as if they were only puppets. Which they were, of course. I cared not for their lives because they cared not for mine. They cared not to see, they cared not to look.

And now, in my death, there are webs all around me. They catch and twist, made up of words that they cannot justify.

My web almost broke.

If it had- where would I be?

Is nothing real?

[Private to Sexby]

What did it feel like?

[Private to Judas]

I will need to be alone for a few days, my friend.