I was stuck in a room with the two of them, both of whom felt the other to be intolerable. I was summonsed to arbitrate the situation, a mediation of sorts. Why? Well…I was about to find out.
When I’d first entered the room, I saw him sitting there with a sideways glare, arms folded across the chest in his tight black t-shirt, leg crossed over the other as his foot rested on his knee.
She, she was no better. She had her arms folded across her chest, too, but take away the glare and replace it with a whole bunch of huffs and hisses, fidgeting with the cuffs on her white jacket.
So this was my situation. They couldn’t agree. Again.
It wasn’t my first time dealing with this pair, either. And for matters of respecting their confidentiality, we shall give them nicknames. He will be called the Head, and She will be called the Heart.
My last few encounters with these two weren’t particularly pleasant; don’t get me wrong, we did achieve wonderful results. But my, how these two fought…so worth it. So entertaining, too, in retrospect. See, in my experience with these two, Heart always knew what she wanted. She was full of desire, of want, of love and compassion. She was kind, but she was strong as a boulder that would not change, only…fade…
Head, on the other hand, had this tendency to be right every single time. He was logical, calculated, and understanding. The empathy he lacked was replaced with honesty; brutal at times, but he didn’t play games.
When Head took the lead on the argument, the outcome would generally be of mutual benefit. Head had an objective outlook on life and was able to take himself out of the picture when analyzing a situation.
Heart, however, would always lead with her emotions. She cared about how people felt in a situation, and she also cared about herself. Heart was less likely to take herself out of the picture, and for that reason, allowed Head to take the lead when it came to situations involving others…
For years, Head was the one who made a regular appearance. He was the one trained to talk to people. Head had kept Heart hidden to protect her for so long that she didn’t quite know how to get what she wanted.
For that reason, I was asked to be present today. I had to solve their dilemma…for the first time, Heart wanted something that only Head knew how to get, and Head’s advice went against Heart’s desire.
(Creative writing, REALLY old one from 2011. Darker writing, found it when I was going through old material.)
And as I lay dying,
the sounds of the conspirators remind me
of who I was supposed to become.
It’s never too late to be who you want to be, but watching the world pass by your dying corpse, you realize there really was no purpose.
That last slash, that last pill, that little nudge… you realize all along that you made the right choice.
But the one time you wonder what it would have been like to hold on rather than back down; for that split second, a moment of the reality of what “could have been” just flashes behind your reluctant eyelids.
The knowledge that all you needed was 3 more seconds with her…and it wouldn’t be you on this end.
You would be the one standing, watching her beg for life. She would be the one asking herself what she could’ve done to change it all. She would wonder what she could have done to re-write the ending.
And that’s when you see it…you envision the blade soaring through the air and puncturing her abdomen. She screams for you to stop as you’re blinded by the rage she fed, provoked, only makes you stronger.
You kick her to the ground and she weeps. Begging for a second chance to live her life differently. Still, you can only be as merciless as she was all along.
She bred this evil monster, fueled the fire ignited once upon a time.
This version of the person she loved has been warped by all the scars and venom injected into veins once innocent.
Nothing will ever mend this brokenness created by the one lying defenseless on the ground. Slowly, as she drowns in a pool of her own blood, you watch her slip away.
Merciless and too selfish to see past your peripheral vision, you wish it was how it used to be.
But now, you’re the one down. Barely able to see past the slits in your dying eyes.
You slip into a coma.
You’re dead to the world, knowing that your last thoughts were nothing but vengeance.
And still…hoping that your legacy lives on…
And as she lay dying, the sounds of the conspirators reminded her of who she could have become…
Through literature and writing, we understand our actions, our choices, and our decisions. Words without actions are…a form of art. While some actions may seem impossible, there’s always a thesaurus to shift a perspective.
I’ve encountered fiction that appear impossible in real life, but there is always a way to actualize an idea into a reality. Surprisingly, concepts such as transfiguration in the Harry Potter series, vampires and werewolves in most contemporary fantasy, or even serial murder mysteries by Doyle or Christie can be done.
How? Allow me to demonstrate.
As a child, I enjoyed reading Harry Potter. I wasn’t one of those fans who had to have a wand, or wanted a cape and rounded glasses. I simply experienced the story and wanted to know what happened next. It wasn’t until later on in life that I discovered how much literary metaphorisation I had unconsciously “experimented”.
Transfiguration and levitation were metaphors of changes in life, of rising, or ascending to a “higher self”. A better, more improved (upgraded, one could almost say) version of me.
Then there were the vampires and werewolves: the immortalized entities that I soon found were projected by textbooks that had captivated me over the years. The law books, the political theories, the philosophical doctrines, the economic downturns of the century…to name a few.
Vampires represented immortality; philosophical thinking is arguably so. They go around in circles leading nowhere except deeper into the discovery of “self”, and that constant flux of how being in the here and now causes one to feel “stuck in the present”, or “stuck in forever”, as the story goes…
Werewolves are obvious; they shift and “transfigure” at full moon. It indicates that there are cycles and moments in life that force one to reflect. Why? Because, um, the moon is…reflective…? It reflects the light from the sun, stealing a radiance that was never its to have.
Finally, murders and mysteries. Does this represent aggression and violence? Well, yes and no. Not physical aggression or violence, but a relentless anger that is channeled into destroying my demons. Into terrorizing the hell out of them. My demons see me coming from a mile away, and are either subservient to me, or they run in fear of being slayed.
I’m friends with some of them though, don’t get me wrong. Pain and Anger are fun. Pain gets me paid, and Anger keeps me awake. Anxiety and Sadness, on the other hand, seem to have found themselves a nice little hiding spot; I haven’t seen them for ages. Can’t say I miss them, they kept thinking the world was running out of oxygen so we had to conserve it by sitting around doing nothing. Strange ones, they were…
So, through literature and writing, we understand our actions, our choices, and our decisions. Words without actions are…a form of art. While some actions may seem impossible, there’s always a thesaurus to shift a perspective. Magic!
“You could have anything you want, you just need to take the first step out of the front door,” he had said to me, a long time ago. I never understood what this meant, but there he watched, from a distance. Waiting.
He was waiting for me, and he didn’t even know it.
His process of waiting, contrary to popular belief, did not consist of sitting on a rock meditating. Although, I’m sure he did do this from time to time, to cleanse his soul and spirit of unnecessary negativity infesting our planet. No, his process of waiting consisted of paving a way, of laying a foundation where I could easily maneuver myself closer to his realm.
He was never going to come to me, he’d made that clear from the start. But he’d make it immensely difficult to stay away — not in the form of an addiction, nor an obsession. Nay, I could put him aside easily and go back to my life at will. I’ve done so countless times, shuffling between him and her; you and I.
Why? Because I enjoyed my own company as much as I enjoyed his. I didn’t like him more than I liked myself, but I didn’t like myself less than I liked him. If anything, I felt the exact same way about him as I did about me… and… he felt the exact same way about me as he did about himself.
I’ve never told anyone about him though, not in the way they’d expect, anyhow. I tried, a couple of times, but I could hear their unspoken doubts. The looks on their faces as they wondered, “you’re just two narcissists in love with the ideas of each other, aren’t you?”
I’d questioned that, myself, too. Countless times. Then I looked closer and realized that the self-love we both shared was not a result of self-hatred, it was not a projection to avoid the void. Our self-love was authentic. It was real. It was genuine.
Neither of us wanted to cause harm to the other, and neither of us placed the other on a pedestal. Yes, in public, he was the accomplished one with the experience and expertise. He was the one they would turn to in times of need. And I allowed that: he had more energy for the others than I did. He had more…charisma.
But in private, he was mine, and I was his. We were perfect reflections of each other: process of elimination cancelled out our equilateral differences, and together, we were one.
I thought I could reign it in and unify all of it, write to you, and be able to say, “Yes, it’s you.”
It’s always you, isn’t it? And yet…it never is. But the French had it right all along…I love…vous. (English equivalent: “yous”)
To you, my darling,
I miss you. It started as a simple “I enjoy your company, and you mine, why not get together and have a great time…” But it’s become a bit more that. Just a bit. Not to say I feel incomplete or inadequate without you. Not even the memories or history. I miss the possibilities. I miss when our innocence wasn’t jaded by fragments of whatever future we thought we had to stress over, when we made plans that felt more like dreams than setting concrete.
I miss when you wanted me…enough to actually show it. I miss when “making an effort” for me was never “effort”, when I was a desire not an obligation. I miss…the possibility of us.
To you, my love,
I love you. But I’ll never tell you that, at least, not sober. I love you, not in the cliche “I want to spend the rest of my life with you” kind of way — I’m not romantically idealistic.
But I love you. The you I had gotten to know, however briefly, however endless that fickle moment seemed…but the you I love…is…unbeknown to anyone but myself. The you I love, only I have seen. No one knows you…except you and I. That “you”, that’s who I love. It is also why I wouldn’t spend the rest of my life with you…much as I adore you, the combination of us would simply explode. We’re just… too much together.
I’ll love you anyway, but I’m not going to do anything about it.
To you, my sweetheart,
You’re very likeable. I hope you know that. Maybe you do, maybe you don’t. You’re that flux between enjoying the attention but hating the repercussions. You want me to commit, but you don’t want to reciprocate. You want to commit, but you’re scared I’ll walk away. So you cling to them instead, the others who don’t seem to like each other very much…well…they probably wouldn’t, if they’d known about each other. But they don’t. And I do. Out of all of us, I’m the only one actually loving you being you. Selflessly entertained by the life you lead, knowing that simply being the desirable part of it is all I’d ever wanted. Keep being you, sweetheart, you’re amazing.
To you, my dearest,
I don’t know how you made it in. No, I don’t know why I let you in. All I know is that I made room for you, and then you disappeared. Then reappeared, wriggled your way in, got comfortable, and disappeared again. You’ve taught me not to see it as a game, to embrace it as your reality, the way you do things. It’s your “expression”. You create an illusion — for us, for them.
Never knowing where you stand, jumping on and off the pedestal they placed you on — “just because you can“, might I add — but, my dear, you do it, for all of us who wish we could. Your absence leaves behind a presence, my dearest, and it’s one that manages to mesmerize, even from a distance. That’s you, dear, and I get it…it’s you who has yet to understand you…