Guten Nicht
February 3rd 2007 02:49
Prompt: Write about a situation in which one might be imprisoned not by their actions, but their lack of action.
Lovingly numbering knobs in his spine, he sleeps soundly beneath my nimble fingers. His breathing resembles that of echoing wardrums: a metaphor for my current state of mind. As his breath grows louder, the guilt washes over my gut with larger weight and in more frequent succession. I sigh.
Using the wall as leverage, my legs push me towards the form beside me, silently embodying my regret. The regret stemming directly from my actions or, lack thereof. My lips kiss the short white blonde hair sprouting from the tender skin beneath his ear. I whisper my greatest secret and, with great paranoia, wish his dormany true. As with most great secrets, it thrives in great regret.
"I can't love you," I whisper to him again.
Somehow, the gravity of this fact increases tenfold upon repetition. A rock rises up in my throat, needles dance across my cheekbones, nimble fingers turn numb, eyes shut tightly -- a crude splatter of eyelashes upon the lenses of my glasses, uncomfortably pressed against my face. I hiccup, tears rolling down my cheeks. There's a reflection in the glistening cold streaming from my bloodshot eyes, glazed over and enveloped in their puffy, pink jumpsuits.
Though obscured by my haggard state of ruddy and freckled cheeks, this reflection speaks with more complexity than any words I've ever written or any concepts that have hopscotched against the endless ceilings of my skull, and I know that he of all people - he who knows me (or, rather, the ever-inseperable blend of instinct, subjective morality and pseudo-intellectuality that he has come to know) - would understand this reflection more than I ever will.
It was someone much wiser than I (a true intellectual perhaps) who told me one can never know another without first witnessing their grief. "Grief is a vital part of the soul," she said. This was ironic as the intellectual was an atheist. I did not question her on the matter of souls, however, as she was much wiser than and I was too young or too cowardly to question her. Thinking back, I imagine the latter option of cowardice to be held more likely than the former, as I have aged and this cowardice has yet to dissipate. Instead, it has grown into my nature and furthermore, manifested itself into my current state of consequence.
I wonder if his inherent understanding of the aformentioned jumpsuits my eyes have grown so fond of wrapping themselves in, these shadows of powerful melancholy that have made a habit of consuming me most nights, stems from a strong emotional intelligence or the fact that he witnesses my grief. This is something I have imagined but cannot understand as watching the painful grimace in the cold, uninviting mirrors of the two bathrooms within our three bedroom house is far too painful and far too real for the intense fragility of our relationship to uphold, much less renounce.
Yet, he waits, and I assume that he loves me enough for the both of us, forever imprisoning us inside of a one-sided romance until death do us part. A fairytale so shallow and artificial it delves so deeply into this fake love that it becomes genuine in its falsity until the jumpsuits come marching through and reveal the malcontent beneath.
Lovingly numbering knobs in his spine, he sleeps soundly beneath my nimble fingers. His breathing resembles that of echoing wardrums: a metaphor for my current state of mind. As his breath grows louder, the guilt washes over my gut with larger weight and in more frequent succession. I sigh.
Using the wall as leverage, my legs push me towards the form beside me, silently embodying my regret. The regret stemming directly from my actions or, lack thereof. My lips kiss the short white blonde hair sprouting from the tender skin beneath his ear. I whisper my greatest secret and, with great paranoia, wish his dormany true. As with most great secrets, it thrives in great regret.
"I can't love you," I whisper to him again.
Somehow, the gravity of this fact increases tenfold upon repetition. A rock rises up in my throat, needles dance across my cheekbones, nimble fingers turn numb, eyes shut tightly -- a crude splatter of eyelashes upon the lenses of my glasses, uncomfortably pressed against my face. I hiccup, tears rolling down my cheeks. There's a reflection in the glistening cold streaming from my bloodshot eyes, glazed over and enveloped in their puffy, pink jumpsuits.
Though obscured by my haggard state of ruddy and freckled cheeks, this reflection speaks with more complexity than any words I've ever written or any concepts that have hopscotched against the endless ceilings of my skull, and I know that he of all people - he who knows me (or, rather, the ever-inseperable blend of instinct, subjective morality and pseudo-intellectuality that he has come to know) - would understand this reflection more than I ever will.
It was someone much wiser than I (a true intellectual perhaps) who told me one can never know another without first witnessing their grief. "Grief is a vital part of the soul," she said. This was ironic as the intellectual was an atheist. I did not question her on the matter of souls, however, as she was much wiser than and I was too young or too cowardly to question her. Thinking back, I imagine the latter option of cowardice to be held more likely than the former, as I have aged and this cowardice has yet to dissipate. Instead, it has grown into my nature and furthermore, manifested itself into my current state of consequence.
I wonder if his inherent understanding of the aformentioned jumpsuits my eyes have grown so fond of wrapping themselves in, these shadows of powerful melancholy that have made a habit of consuming me most nights, stems from a strong emotional intelligence or the fact that he witnesses my grief. This is something I have imagined but cannot understand as watching the painful grimace in the cold, uninviting mirrors of the two bathrooms within our three bedroom house is far too painful and far too real for the intense fragility of our relationship to uphold, much less renounce.
Yet, he waits, and I assume that he loves me enough for the both of us, forever imprisoning us inside of a one-sided romance until death do us part. A fairytale so shallow and artificial it delves so deeply into this fake love that it becomes genuine in its falsity until the jumpsuits come marching through and reveal the malcontent beneath.
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Comment by Shea
on The Most Beautiful Letter in The English Language