Decision

It's torture to watch her sobbing like this, partly because I semi-know how it feels, partly because I feel it projected onto myself. I feel the walls go up around my emotion saying "It is not worth all the pain to discover true, human emotion." It is not worth this.

I'm used to loneliness and the walls around it are steadfast. Because happiness is an illusion and I won't believe a lie no matter how much it smacks of and acts in truth.

Thus I am disillusioned. Of course I only speak of friends because that hurts enough as it is--but to open myself up to more than that, that's self-mutilation of a sort. And what? To lose something great, because in the end I'll lose. So yes, I prevent myself from gaining.

I sacrifice momentary happiness for myself, and perhaps for another, to save us from this. In this case, I'm not just watching her lose a lover, but her best friend in the world.

I've already done that thrice and none of them were lovers. Just imagine if one had been...I remember the one that hurt the most; I remember what I did. I doubled over on the floor under the bed, my knees tucked under me, my forehead pressed to the floor rocking, rocking, rocking for hours until I'd cried six years in three hours and destroyed myself back to a ghost.

I never got him back, really, even though he still hangs around.

Then I tried and trusted again--another lie.

So now I run away from the moment.

Do you understand? I can't take this pain anymore, this trickery of bliss for a solitary kiss.

So I run away from the moment so that I'm in control.

It's time to be alone again. I'm sorry. I've learned my lesson too many times and I still tried trusting again. But I won't get back up after this one, so I'm leaving before I fall at all.

I'm sorry. I'm a solitary soul. I content myself with make-believe and it keeps me surviving. But the real is not just real happiness for a second--it's torture, perpetual.

I will stand by the constant, dull throb of loneliness in place of this.

Because I know what I'm in for.

Take your moment back. There's someone beautiful out there for you and you deserve her.

You deserve her.

Can't you see that you deserve that beautiful girl, whoever she happens to be? She's the one who make syou laugh and cry, who gives you sight when you need it and blindness when you need it, who you feel separate from and a part of no matter what--inextricably intertwined.

You deserve her, that one there, that beautiful girl.

But it hurts too much for me, so I run away from the moment. It's too late to let somebody love me, so I turn my face unto the wall and it all comes together.

The angel's there, my loyal companion of fantasy.

I gave it all up tonight listening to her weeping, mourning the end of the best friendship she ever had.

Maybe I would've liked to know the taste of it. But I got the aftertaste beforehand and the virgin sip is never worth the consequence.

"Better Than Stars" it reads. He says it's the trees. But I think there's double meaning there.

The truth is, I'm a coward. I'm a coward and I couldn't speak. At least not the right words. It was as if a hand had clenched my stomach and my throat. Physically impossible. Because I'm a coward. But I have to bring it up. I have to face it.

In the end, I won't lose anything. I'll gain knowledge. In the least.

"What do you want from me?" she asked.
He flicked his eyes up to hers for a moment before turning them down again and heaved a great sigh.
"I want your heart," he said. "I want your body...I want your soul."
"You sound like the devil," she said.
He turned his eyes to hers again and held them there.
"Maybe I am."

The world doesn't care about you. The world doesn't care about anything. The world just exists. It's not even society because that's pittance, too against the backdrop of eternity. So what would an individual matter? Why do I work so hard? It's not really for anything but self-gratification no matter how hard I try to deny it. You, too. You more than me, probably, because you stands for everyone. But where does this drive come from? From where is this ambition? I think it's from within me. I think I can't stop it. I think I'll never give up despite the disappointments, despite the let-downs, despite the spite that stabs me and encases me in its cruel bubble. In spite of it.

So here is a moral dilemma:
Lie to myself and regret that. Or tell the truth and let it all crash.
But this is the truth. This is the truth and I can't deny it anymore. The world is smaller than you think, sometimes too small, sometimes not enough.

It's just the right size right now. And even though it hurts when it comes to distance and even though I know it always will, I build a wall around myself to block out all that pain. But now it's different because I can't build a wall when it comes to certain people and sometimes, they break them all down so I begin again without any defenses. It's better this way because it's worth all the pain to discover true human emotion.

But this is my life. This is my life and I own it for the first time. I can't let anyone take that away. Not for anything. Not for gratification or guilt or any of that because I'm not selling out. I wouldn't ask anyone else to do that for me even if deep down inside I wished they would.

It's good now, though. Because I've always lived for other people. I've always been the self-cop out. The moment I made up my mind to own myself, the world began to change and so did I. For the better. Because that's what made it happy. That's what makes it good. That's what makes it great. Even when it's horrible. I live for myself, not for anyone else. Not for a future date, not for the past and not for selfish motivation, but just for the chance to see my whole picture. Otherwise, I'd wilt and let everyone down in trying to help them.

I live for myself. And that makes all the difference.

Today's showing is a memory and the memory came as a dream, but I know it really happened. I woke up this morning with the premonition of death and soon found out that a friend was experiencing it. It always comes like this, whether it's for my life or for someone else's. I suppose I intertwine myself too much, or maybe we all are intertwined but most can't pick up on it.

It was a cold Saturday morning just like this one, only it was in December and I was six years old. I ran into my parents' room and jumped on the bed between them. I remember I was smiling and looked over at the pattern of the light coming through window shade. "Toothbrush," I used to call it, because it reminded me of the brush.

I leaned over and kissed my mother's belly twice: once on the left for the baby that would be Noah and once on the right for the baby that would be Sam. I did this every morning until she sentenced to the hospital about a week before they were born.

Something wasn't right this day, though. My mother's stomach growled and my father wasn't smiling. They glanced at each other in a way I didn't recognize.

"Why's your tummy so noisy?" I asked.
"Because I'm nervous," my mother replied.
"How come?"
That's when she looked at my father and took a deep breath.
"Remember last night when the phone rang really late and woke you up?"
"Yeah."
"It was Grandma. Grandpa couldn't breathe. Daddy went over to their house and Aunt Linda and Sharen were there, too. He was in the middle of giving himself his nebulizer treatment and he called out to Grandma that he couldn't breathe and he fell on the floor. The paramedics did everything they could. But he died."

I sat there still for a long moment. My mother started crying and so did my father. I had never seen him cry before.

Up until that point "death" had only been something in a story or on the news. I didn't really know it. And Grandpa had been my best friend. He used to take me to the park and let me run in the sprinklers. He'd hide Chuckles in his socks drawer for me to find. After he died, I'd go there to look but Grandma never took the time. He'd take me downstairs to play with train set and I'd watch it go around and around. I never saw it again. He gave it to my cousin.

After the funeral, when we were back in their house, I curled up and dug my face into his special chair. It was the kind that spun and rocked at the same time and we'd go on rides. Only this time he wasn't there, so I sat in it alone, and I let it sink in that he'd never hold me on his lap and sit in that chair with me again.

Up until now, I think I always thought my childhood ended when I was eight. But it didn't. It ended when I was six and realized that life comes to an end and some people never come back.

A boy asks how the story should be told. I tell him I don't know but as it keeps on going, we'd both figure it out.
"Who are you?" I ask.
"A friend."
A smile cracked on my face.
"No name?" I ask.
"Do I need one?"
"I guess not."
"Good, then."
"Why are you here?"
" To learn you."
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything!" He jumps into a pirhouette and I laugh in surprise.
"That's too much, I think," I say.
"Aah, no. You let some know."
"I don't let them. They jsut get into me. What do you think of me?"
"I think you're simple."
"Really? Most people would tend to disagree. They think I'm too complex. So they run away. I never get it. But that's why you're here, isn't it?"
He smiles and twirls around.
"Is that a 'yes'" I ask.
He bows.
"You're Daniel, aren't you?" I ask.
"God is judge," he says.
"You're so happy."
"So are you."
I smile.
"Do you know Ithaca," I ask.
"I know you."
"And what do you know about me?"
"You're complex," he says, a mock-serious expression on his face.
I laughed.
"Then I guess I'm an oxy-moron, huh?"
"Most people are," he says.
"You're not real," I say.
"No," he says.
"They're real," I say and point ahead of me. "You know the funny thing? The real people say more of what I want than the ones like you."
"Then we've really got a problem don't we?"
"No. You do."
My real friend held the door for me as we walked inside.
Daniel vanished.
I was judge tonight.

Last night, I didn't make it back to my bed, but I didn't sleep alone and that's what made it home.
'Home' has had to be redefined.
I told my friend after thinking on it for a while that I really haven't felt a place called 'home' in eleven years. He looked at me for a second before saying "That's almost your whole life."
"I know," I said.
We stood in the doorway for a moment and then I shrugged and sighed.
"Maybe one day I'll have it again...Home, I mean."
He smiled out of the corner of his mouth.
"We'll find it," he said.
He left then and even though I went to sleep alone just like every night before it, I went to sleep smiling.
It's cold in my room at night, so it gives me more of an excuse to wrap myself up in layers of blankets (that I pretend are arms) and to box myself in with pillows (that I pretend are someone).
So now the hours tick by just like the days and the months and the years but for once there's a glimmer of real hope that it won't always be this way. Because this morning someone was there when I woke up and smiled at me and said in a loud whisper "Good-morning."
I woke up with him looking at me from the other bed and it was nice to feel that comfort of finally having that person not only giving me happiness but to whom I give it back.
In the back of my mind there's always the knowledge that this will end one day for one reason or another. But to be honest with myself, like he said to be, this is the one thing I can't ever let myself lose. This is the one thing I must keep if I lose everything else.
And I know I'll lose because I'm already losing because I'm going against the expectation and the grain.
So in spite of them will I do this? No. Not at all. I'll do it for one reason: because it makes me happy and I know it's right.
"Be honest with yourself. Think about it."
I did already. And you already know the answer.
I'm making my own grain now, my own expectation--my own home, my own familiy. Because I can choose. And I know it's right.