Lost In A Parisian Rain

[The truth of Napoleon's final years has been a well kept secret - until now. Perhaps it's due to the sheer inhumanity exhibited by the perpetrators that so shamed them into desperate measures of deception so that their crime never be revealed. What they did not know was that Napoleon kept a small diary that outed his persecutors, branding them as fiends and devils in the forever annals of history. Revenge-motivated monsters, having been upstaged by Napoleon's genius, seized upon the opportunity to exact retribution for their own inadequacies. Kidnapping him from his island of exile, dressing him in the most ragged of clothes, Napoleon was drugged and dropped into an insane asylum for what was a numerous and peculiar affliction of the times: an asylum prison for those who believed themselves to be Napoleon.]

Entry 1:

The madness of men is real. Until you are its witnessing victim, you cling to a measure of doubt. You think it may be an act, or human weakness, or simple folly from which none of us is immune. But, no, it is as real as the sun and just as inescapable. The false witness bore against me is something these eyes cannot un-see. I see their lips moving as if in a surreal play, swearing in certainty of whom they claim I am, "truth" fixed in their head like the rock of Gibraltar. In fact, the more wrong they are, the greater the conviction in their voice! How godless of a world we live in. Am I to be buried alive?? I say to anyone who may read this: If even our Maker does not honor the truth, abandon all hope!

Entry 2:

I must scribe this for my own sanity: I am Napoleon, former Emperor of France and ruler of Europe. I can recount my exploits in exact detail. But my captors say that only proves the depth of my sickness! How can it be where the more one speaks the truth the more one is condemned? I look for reason behind their eyes but they have no thirst for truth. In darkness, they weave tales to suit their supposed vanities and shuttered minds. The power of an open mind is what brought me victory. Have I not proven the way to success? Have these people learned nothing? And if not, must I be the on who pays that price

Entry 3:

Rage and despair are my constant companions. Oh, for my Old Guard to come and wipe out these doctors who seemingly wield more power than a thousand kings. I have been unable to talk my way to the light. I plead with them in earnest supplication only to see them kindly nod and explain they "understand". How does a closed mind understand anything? It only makes one blind. That is fatal! My greatest ally on the battlefield was my opponent's refusal to heed reality and react. Now it works against me! For their own benefit they should hear my truth. But they fear to question their judgment and ignorance, saying. "I hope you see the light one day." That is not my crime but theirs!

A fellow inmate thinks he reflects me!
More like stomach indigestion.

Entry 4:

I cannot count the days. At first I could, but no more as I languish in a hole forgotten by the hearts of men. A certain unreality has crept inside; an ancient, forlorn spirit welcomes me to a club of injustice I've no desire to join. I must deny my reality to protect me from reality. Shakespeare wrote, "The truth will out." If so, then when? When it's too damn late, when someone reads this a hundred years hence? Where is justice NOW? Time is of the essence but the more I press the more they push. I thought I knew the hearts of men. I was as much a political warrior as a battlefield strategist. But these common men, these servants of stupidity, how does one defeat them without being Emperor? This stubbornness I face, what is its fanatical source?

Entry 5:

I found an advocate to argue my case. This has made it worse. I overheard the head administrator. "Why that's absurd! I don't care what you believe. For your argument to be true Napoleon would have been kidnapped and forcibly injected into our population. Preposterous! Never shall I believe men of substance would do such a thing, period. You've lost any sense of judgment. Just listen to yourself!  Do not anger me further with your mad fantasies! The mistake is on your part, not mine." I replay these rabid words at night but find no counter to pierce them. What possible future when the truth does not suffice? I'm choking.

Entry 6:

How can I fight this? Is it more wrong to carry on than leave this nightmare? Am I being punished for sins from my past? What truths did I myself deny? What war did I ever refuse? Questions, more questions! Never answers. Yes, I realize these overlords wish to protect the reputation of this asylum and to be caught holding the actual Napoleon would uphold them as frauds before a rightly scathing public. This they cannot allow - because they are frauds. My advocate comes to visit me and we relive my battlefield triumphs in sweet escape for the moment. But when he leaves I die - and part of me suspects even him, that he plays an act for me to drop my guard. But I have no guard because I speak no lie.

They all dress like me here. At first, I took it personally.

Entry 7:

I live for hate. That's the one thing not denied me. I hate both my kidnappers and my captors and will see them dead. My hope is that my hate will one day destroy them. But it is only destroying me, Napoleon. And yet, they cannot get away with this! They MUST not get away with it. But they do, day after day, month after month, year after tortuous year. How much longer does this cruelty go on? I hear the clinking glasses of my enemies congratulating themselves on the demise they concocted for me, knowing men's lust for lies is more imprisoning than any iron cage. This is why in politics deceit is not a handicap. How stubborn their desire to be stubborn.

Entry 8:

It's been ages since I last wrote. What was I thinking? That this diary would free me? I must keep it hidden - like my truth - in order to avoid the beatings. How can what's hidden save anyone? I made power my mistress and do not know how to function in its absence. Would a man of true conviction be able to persuade these fools? Am I stuck here through something lacking in me? These demonic questions poke me in the night - I have no reply in silent screams. I'm on broken knees, forced to admit of no guarantee of freedom. But do not my rulers see that my doom is also theirs? I had always assumed every man would choose to preserve his life. I live in a play of grand tragedy under the watching heavens.

Entry 9:

Spring scents inhabited the air this morning. I forgot where I was, inhaling ecstasy, even grateful was I. Does that make me a fool? If I sweetly accept this injustice, how can hope exist? I must keep hate alive to do the work of God! Behold the avenger's sword, beheading in swift execution to balance the scales of liberty. If I surrender - and never have I done this in my life - the scoundrels will go scot-free, unaccountable to men. They must be brought to the altar of truth and made to confess. As for my confession, I'm deeply haunted by the grieving mother handing me a blood-stained uniform, saying, "My son died for your vanity." I cannot face her even today and will die a true coward.

They now laugh at my plans for world conquest.
David won't be painting this.

Entry 10:

I hope you're happy, God. I've been informed of today's date, peeling my eyes wide open. So many wasted years! To what end does this serve? Can not a bolt of lightening strike these liars down? Let us right the world! I throw myself on Your mercy. This is why I always put my faith in the musket and the cannon above all else. They do one's bidding. In here, where truth has no meaning, I experience no such triumph of the will. Are we to live and die as mere puppets and pawns of the mad mob? Is that what life boils down to, to pass away with love unspoken? Millions of lives lost in service of war. What meaning my death? In Paris, it is raining.

Final Entry:

I harbor no ill will. To do so is to suffer defeat. I free my thoughts to entertain only those of my own choosing. I feel not I, but an outside being to perish in the dust, endures the indignities and savagery of this horrid institution, of lost men who know not what they do. I moved on. I think of Josephine. She was the moon and the sky and the stars to me. Had I chosen a wiser course, who knows our fate? I pray to meet her in the afterlife.

To leave a place without bitterness is to be its victor. I am resigned yet not resigned, floating above the earth in untouched clouds beyond reach. This thought amuses me so! My Maker knows of my victory and who counts more than that? Never in my life did I suspect one could find victory in surrender. I would have deemed it a "mad fantasy". But this peace I found is indestructible and the dream I always wished to be. On this does my soul rest.