An extraordinary tale of a [SPOILER]

To you I dedicate this hymn: to your green eyes, your heart of stone, your soul of ice. As I stand on the rim of a volcano ready to erupt, I hear you singing in soprano. My judgment wobbly and corrupt – I beg you, please, don’t interrupt – I want to jump, I yearn to stay… and I blaspheme, but then I pray. Presently my heart started to thump as I looked down into the abyss that breathes flames. Oh, how I miss your lovely voice, and your green eyes, even your lies. My chains are made of strange alloys, so heavy but simultaneously so light. You never let me go, and I will never leave your side! Something unique: it isn’t love; long distance between us, it does not make me sad as long as I know that you’re okay. Your silence doesn’t make me mad or jealous. Day after day, I live my life away from you, with you right in the corner of my brain, like summer rain, like a mountain train – our breathtaking coexistence is far beyond all humdrum stories, it’s bitter-sweet and sour-glorious. It is not love, it's an obsession, a benign tumor. And, as much as I wish to be at your feet, I know that we don’t fit together, you’re everything I’m not, and our paths don’t intersect. But is it really so uncommon? Your deep, green eyes, your smiles, my feelings? (I wish I just forgot you, but you’re of supernatural impact.) Or am I too sentimental, enamored, self-deceiving, mental?

You’re a danger in the flesh, an open wound. I wish I could be rational enough, my love. I lash myself into a rage, I bash my head against the wall. I fall. I fall again into your trap, too weak to fight and paralyzed with fright. And here I am – I rush to you on your first call. I am your slave; you are my queen. So, is it love? I lost my head; I have a crush on you, you know? I will be brave! My courage, tell me, where’ve you been? I needed you; I need you still. I’ll face your face, your large green eyes – oh God, please give me some advice – I’m at your feet, at your six legs. It isn’t love, it’s much more cruel. There’s no escape, my nature calls – I will obey, your helpless prey. Your jaws embraced my fragile neck; I heard a crack…

I lost my head, I lost my body. It hurts a bit, but still, I’m happy: I stared the danger in the eye. Eventually, it isn’t bad to die for love. Decapitated, I rejoice: I've seen your smile, I've heard your voice. And most importantly, I learned how to be honest with myself: it was not love – it was life, it was death, rebirth, and hope. So much I yearned for fleeting pleasure; I got much more: a priceless treasure of being whole, although dismembered…

Wait! I thought that I was supposed to be dead. Why am I still thinking? Still seeing your face? Godd**n it! I am a praying mantis, not a cricket! I’m not from the story of Collodi, or del Toro. Then, why am I talking, thinking, sobbing? Am I afflicted with some unusual rare disease? But anyways, what about my decease?

The head I lost, you should stop thinking. My eyes, you should stop blinking. Let us assume, just for a moment, that an intelligent and talking mantis is something casual and common. But so is death, and it has some stringent rules. Rule number one: the torrent of your thoughts should cease. Rule number two: all faces – dear or unpleasant – should vanish from your conscience. Don’t be a fool! Follow these rules if you wish to have no problems.

But what are the chances… that we’ll meet again in the next life?