Disclaimer: I don't own Othello: The Moor of Venice. I just hope that I'm not sued from beyond the grave…it would mean a lot of other people would be too, lol.

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Insidious Nightmares

I have never known a tempest such as this was capable of living within a man's breast. Inwardly, this uproar sweeps and ravages inside me, stirring emotions seldom touched, or seldom brought to such intensity. My rage burns hotter than the flames of Helios; my sorrows perhaps could overtake the sea of Neptune in deepness if I were to weep just now. But now, most of all, I am jealous,more jealous than the suspicious Juno.

Such perfect beauty as Desdemona possesses has never been seen. And in her vibrant eyes, I can see no guilt, no trespass. I am captivated by the sweet curve of her neck, the softness of her ivory flesh. Her soft speaking gentility tames my animalistic soul. My heart stops for the very love of her.

Yet Iago swears this angelic being is untrue as the wind itself! And is not Iago a guileless man of honest thought?

The images Iago paints for me are grotesque, insidious nightmares that are impossible! Yet they stay with me, and I begin to shiver as I lie in our bed, which Iago says is sullied by blasphemous transgression. I see Michael Cassio entwined with her in the dance of adultery, in those secret moments where they thought none could see or hear.

And I feel my blood rise and bubble in my veins; feel my eyes go blind with pure hate, hate, hate! Madness overtakes me, I know it, and I can feel it in those moments! I am quite capable of killing then. Even though some part of me still wishes to believe in my beautiful Desdemona, jealousy overtakes me, and changes me.

In those moments when my thoughts are overtaken by bloodlust, I am a demon. The Moor of Venice becomes the darkest demon to have ever left hell. I can see Cassio dead in so many fashions, so many times—…

But when I come to the thought of killing her, my heart convulses in pain. Is such perfect loveliness to be destroyed? I cannot bear the thought, and the flames of murderous intent water down into misery.

And then I am just Othello, once more. Confused, jealous Othello, unknowing of who to trust or what to believe.