INTO THE DARKIt's been a while before he felt the rain and he pulled on his coat tighter. He wondered why he didn't feel it at first. Could a man be so lost in his thoughts that he'd be numbed? Could something hold him so incessantly that everything around him would dim like an unlighted stage, with the lone spotlight trailing on this scene before him as he stood on the sidelines watching? How did one deal with something like this? It felt like a 5-inch steel point slicing through his chest yet failing to make it bleed, only to realize that it was bleeding but the blood was draining into the heart and waiting for it to explode like a water-filled balloon plumetting down from a 9th storey window onto the pavement... bursting into smithereens. What does one feel after that? Would one be capable of feeling still?
He leaned on the tree whose canopy was shielding him from the downpour and thought, 'How sad is this? My home is right across the street and I'm seeking shelter under a tree, like a loathsome criminal lurking the dark streets in search of prey.' Damn the pains a man had to take just to prove to himself that '
love' was as real as a meal you could sink your teeth into. That he should swallow a whole load of filth believing he could be a little more happy, a little more complete.
Stupid thoughts. He never believed in love and relationships anyway. He liked living alone, to have his way as he pleased, held accountable to no one. There was no need to always be at his best. He could mess up the house and that would be fine. He could order pizza every night and there'd be nobody telling him it wasn't a proper dinner. Hell, he could go to bed without brushing his teeth and it didn't seem so terrible. Everything was so much simpler.
How could a woman change all that? What was it... soft lips burning with passion so eagerly offered? The thrill of laying your hands on her body, following its contours, dipping on the curves and grabbing on some flesh as you feel yourself getting excited? What was it in having someone to share a meal with or a quiet night with a hot cup of coffee as you snuggle on the bearskin rug watching old movies? How could they make the weekends so special that you'd want to pull in the days so they'd go much faster? All you do anyway is stay up all night making love until you're both so spent your knees get wobbly, and you share a cigarette and gulp the rest of the wine, and she falls asleep in your arms as you sniff on her hair, and the last thought you have before drifting to sleep is how good it feels to have her all spooned up against you.
He eased his grip, feeling a sharp pain on his hand as he did. Oh yes, the roses. Now they're drooping and soggy from the rain, and the thorns are all buried in his palm. Fool! To think that he'd even thought of bringing her roses. He didn't normally do it. She wasn't the type after all. But he wanted to do something nice tonight. He wanted to believe he was capable of that. It was his way of telling himself that after years of being alone, he finally knew it was right not to be. For years, as content as he was with the solitary life he led, he has wondered why he felt so disengaged from himself, compelled to search for something yet not knowing what he was missing. She led him by the hand and showed him the path, teaching him to walk it and making him believe he was getting there... that he was getting home.
And yes, he felt it somehow... surprisingly, strangely. Grasping a sense of what was not there before, he'd been able to rummage within himself and find the connection. And for a while, he could look into the mirror and see the reflection of a man who had reason enough to get up in the morning, every morning, instead of the morose cynic he was so used to seeing. For a while, he had a strong conviction that where he stood was where he ought to be, that this space was his because
love has paid the price. It brought a bounce to his steps and a smile on his lips... hesitant and awkward, but a smile nevertheless. For a while, the days held a promise that the nights fulfilled. He felt young and alive... he felt almost new.
Just an hour ago, on the plane, he read a line from Nietzsche which said, 'Somebody who has a
why to live for can bear with almost any
how.' That made him nod, and smile. He thought to himself, 'I have become that man. She turned me into him.' And in a moment of pure joy, he had bought the roses.
Now this... and he doubted if he could bear it anyhow.
He let the roses drop to the ground as he saw the lights on the bedroom window flicker and die, the shadows he was watching vanishing into the darkness. Even then, he stood still, unable to move, unable to break free of this long fall into a seeming crevasse, as dark clouds swarmed around him, lodging on his chest, making each breath a little bit harder. Is that what intense pain did?... clip one's hands on the side like dead weights, pin one's feet to the ground and turn one's heart to stone? He was in utter disbelief, yes, he knew that much. But was this inertia, in a sense, a way of preserving oneself? Was this struggle the mark of a man, to be able to contain himself inspite of his emotions or was this spineless cowardice, plain and simple? Was this the way of love or was this the way to die? Perhaps, there was no difference.
Once, there almost was a way to get back home. But now the light's all gone and he has missed the turn, all the ground he's gained lost... and he was alone once again. He didn't even have himself to hold on to. She didn't even leave him that.
He tugged on his coat tighter still and moved out of the shadows onto the street, his feet crunching against the pavement before his senses told him it would be there. He looked up to the window again... and let the tears fall.
The rain turned into a drizzle, and then a trickle. But the night stayed on.
