Sometimes you can sculpt your own reality and the truth will fall into darkness...
(n.) a shifting series of illusions or deceptive appearances created by the imagination.
The world really is a messed up, fucked up, place. And the people in it are even worse.
This is what he's thinking when she kisses him and her tongue is in his mouth and he's kissing her back and her arms are around his shoulder and his hands are on her hips. He's thinking about how messed up the world is and how people really are twisted. He's thinking about how most of the time, people don't really know what the hell they're doing, making it up as they go along really.
He's thinking about how people want immediate gratification and most people do not care about consequences. People are stupid, really, and not all that nice. He's thinking about how fragile people are and most people you can knock over with a feather or a breath of wind. People are all connected and all alone at the same time. He's thinking how people are supposedly responsible for the future of the world. That's a scary thought.
He's thinking how people, friends use each other, let themselves be used. There's so little shame there is in the world today, so little guilt.
He probably shouldn't be thinking about this, shouldn't be thinking at all, especially when she's kissing him and they're discarding they're clothes and making their way backwards, slowly, lips still locked somehow. He shouldn't be thinking when she pushes him back on the bed and removes what remains of his clothes. He shouldn't be thinking at all but he is. He's thinking about how fucked this world is.
No pun intended.
It will never happen again.
This is the first thing she says in the morning, laying next to him on the bed, not touching him. He wonders if this makes it a one night stand or not. She's still there, she has not left. They had not been drunk last night. It was intentional, in one way or another.
He decides it does not matter.
He wonders if they will avoid each other. They work together, they are friends, good friends, and it would be noticeable if they suddenly do not speak to each other, if they avoid each other. Perhaps this is why it happened, because they were friends. He thinks they are friends, he's certain they are, even though they used each other like this. People do horrible things to the people they consider friends, and they still remain friends somehow.
This isn't really that horrible either.
He likes her, as a friend, he did not want to lose communication with her. He wonders how things would change between them, for he was certain things would change. He wasn't stupid or optimistic enough to believe that things could go back to the way they were.
He wasn't sure he wanted them to anyway.
Are we okay?
He thinks for a moment about her question. He thinks in the silence. He is good at that, thinking. He does not think about the truth. He thinks about her and what she wants. He ignores the truth because sometimes that doesn't matter. Sometimes you can sculpt your own reality and the truth will fall into darkness and it will be all right.
He decides that his feelings don't truly matter because he can put up his walls he's so good at hiding behind and things will be alright. He can pretend. He is perfectly capable of that. It is not healthy, but that is okay, he decides.
Yes, we're okay.
And maybe they will be.
Surprisingly, or maybe not so surprisingly, very little changes between them.
They can still smile at each other and their smiles are real. They pass each other in the hallway and they smile. He still goes to her for help and she to him. And things progress as if that night that will never happen again, had never happened in the first place.
But things did change and he could see it and she could see it even if no one else could. They could see it because they know each other. He looks into her eyes and sees the slight tremor of fear and the defiance. He hears the little shake in her laughter and sees they way her eyes question him when they talk. But he has not yet developed the ability to read minds and does not know precisely what questions run through her mind, though he is sure there are a lot of them.
She is one of the people on this earth who never runs out of questions, even when those questions are harmful. She is one of those people who needs to solve the puzzle even if it is lethal. He is the one who wonders and she is the one who asks.
He thinks this is why it is mildly surprising that so little really changes. Really he is surprised she does not ask questions, does not try to figure this out and piece it together. He wonders if she has rationalized it in her own mind, her actions and his. Perhaps that is why she does not ask questions. Perhaps she is satisfied with the answers she has; the answers she has invented. Perhaps she has just never learned to actually ask the questions that occupy her mind. He thinks this is the most likely explanation.
He decides it does not matter.
It will never happen again.
That's what she had said the first time, but he learned not to trust words so much. Maybe that is why he is not surprised when her lips are on his and the edge of his kitchen countertop is digging into his back and his heart is beating like crazy and his skin burns all of a sudden. She tastes like tomato sauce and cheese and Hawaiian punch. Her hair is soft in his hands and her nails dig into his back. She pulls off clothes his and he returns the favor. Something tears but he continues because the world is not likely to stop now and he doesn't want it to anyway. It's all very rushed and heated and frenzied and he can feel her heart beat fast beneath his touch.
None of it surprises him. Maybe he expected it to happen. Maybe he was hoping.
He decides it doesn't matter.
This is not a relationship.
This is what she says in the morning, when they are not touching and laying on separate ends of the bed.
There is silence.
He wonders why it doesn't hurt
This thing, whatever it is, whatever it isn't, he thinks that it should hurt, emotionally. He thinks that his heart should feel like it is being ripped out and stomped upon, trodden into the dust.
He wonders why it doesn't hurt him, why he doesn't worry. He wonders why he does not think of her, at least not any more then usual. He wonders if it hurts her and decided that it does not; he would have seen it in her eyes. He wonders if she thinks of him, more then is normal.
He asks why, but only once, in a moment of foolishness. It is a dangerous thing to ask; why. He doesn't ask questions anyway, questions are not his forte. He decides why does not matter anyway.
Sometimes things have, and need, no reason.
He wonders why they haven't self-destructed yet. This thing they are doing, this thing they have, this relationship that is not a relationship, it is not healthy. He wonders how it works. They have these moments where time seems to stay still, or move faster, he isn't sure which, which is a foolish thing but that's how it seems. Then they return to their lives and operate and function as though these moments never existed at all.
He thinks maybe it works because one is real and the other is not. He wonders which is the reality and which is the facade.
He decides it doesn't matter.
The do not talk about it.
It is simply an unwritten rule they both follow. Really he does not talk about it because she does not talk about it and he only follows her lead. He let's her be in control because that is what he thinks she needs. Possibly, it is what he needs too but he finds it easier to psycho analyze someone else rather then himself.
They do not talk about it in their days and moments of 'normalcy'. They do not talk about it during their breakfast and coffee they share in the public as two friends and coworkers. They do not talk about it when they are at his apartment, eating cheese pizza and watching old horror films. They do not talk about it in the morning when are not touching and she assures him that it is not a relationship, because that is not really talking about it.
They do not talk about it ever.
He wonders if they are committing a sin.
Really he is wondering if they will go to hell for this, whatever it is. It's a foolish thing to think when her hands are running over his bare chest and her breathing is raged and so is his. It's a foolish thing to think in any situation really because he isn't sure weather or not he believes in hell at all.
Still he wonders because he is good at that, and it is what he does. He wonders because for some reason, when she is there, in the midst of their actions, he can still think. Somehow his mind is completely clear and he wonders.
He decides they are indeed committing a sin of some sort. They are not married, either of them, so not adultery. Greed possibly, Lust defiantly, he does not know if selfishness is a sin but adds that to his mental list anyway.
He wonders how hot it is in hell and decides it can not be as hot as he is at this moment in time.
He isn't sure he believes in hell anyway.
This is dangerous.
He knows he is playing with fire and he is likely to get burned. He does it anyway. It's a caustic thing, this non-relationship, and horribly addictive. Two things that, when combined, are incredibly lethal.
He wonders if being burnt was really that bad or if it was like they said, it is better to love then lose then not to love at all.
He doesn't trust words.
Perhaps he is a masochist at heart and does it purposely, subconsciously. He doesn't think so, but how much does one really know about their subconscious. It would explain it though, why he braves the metaphorical fire, why he did so in the first place.
In all honesty, he doesn't want to be burned. He likes being whole and relatively intact. He wants, deep down, to stay that way. But he does not want it that much, or else he wouldn't be here, in this moment in time, with the match in his hand.
He doesn't want to be burned, but he knows it's inevitable.
And he doesn't blow the fire out.
He is falling in love with her.
Or perhaps he was already in love with her. He deices it does not really matter, because at this moment he is in love with her. It does not matter if this is a new condition or if it has always been this way. It does not matter because he loves her now.
It hits him one day, when he wakes up and she is not there. She was not there the night before, so this is not odd, but he wished she was. Even if it means that she will lay there and tell him that they are not in a relationship and he will simply lay in the silence, not agreeing, not disagreeing because that was safe. Even if it means that she will be gone in moments, to be seen later in the day, maybe over of cup of coffee, as if she forgot the thing they did not discuss.
Because she will be there, if only for a moment, and that was what he wants.
It begins to hurt, this thing they have. It hurts for him, he does not know if it hurts for her, he can only guess. There is a small voice in his head that tells him he can read her better then anyone and he knows when she hurts and she does not hurt now. This voice tells him she feels nothing.
He ignores it because as long as he pretends it does not exist, he can pretend something else. He pretends she does feel and she does hurt for him.
He knows it is only pretend, but sometimes that is enough. When one is in love, and it hurts and one's heart is breaking, pretending is enough. Pretending can save you. He wonders if it will save him. He doesn't think so.
He decides it does not matter
He thinks this is killing him.
He wonders if this is saving her in some way. He thinks so. He hopes so. Then it will mean something.
Then it will be worth it.
He starts to think of her possessively.
He starts to think of her as his, only his. He knows it is dangerous to do this because he is in love and because she feels nothing. He knows he is setting himself up for more heartbreak and he knows he can only take so much. He knows so many things and yet he does it anyway.
Logic seems to elude him and he finds that he does not really care.
Maybe that's it. Maybe it is the care that eludes him and not the logic. He thinks that makes more sense. Maybe he stopped worrying about getting burnt, stopped caring. Maybe he has decided to face the inevitable.
He wonders if he is self-destructing. He does not think so, not quite.
He thinks he has one hand hovering over the button.
In this world, thinking means very little.
Which is a shame because thinking is what he is good at. Thinking is what he does, but thinking means so little in this world, really.
Action moves the world foreword, moves the plot. Thinking is only words inside a person's head. Words can do so much and so little. And they can do nothing trapped inside a person's mind. They have to come out and thoughts need to give way to action.
Actions can change things and words inside a persons mind can do nothing.
Actions can make things better or worse, but mostly different. Thoughts leave everything the same. Thoughts can tear you up inside, actions can tear you up for real.
That is how the world works.
He wonders if this is serendipity.
For that matter he wonders if this is even good. It is a dangerous thing, what they have. It is painful and dangerous and very far from healthy. It's hurtful and harmful. It can rip them apart, apart from each other and apart from themselves into little pieces.
He decided it is good. Sometimes good things are painful and harmful and dangerous. They can still be good. This is good, he decides, in one way or another.
He wonders if what they have, whatever it is, is fate or just simply dumb luck. He wonders if there is someone watching out for him or if things just happened by chance.
He decides that it is neither fate nor luck. He deices that everything is simply human choice, a series of human choices. People are where they are in the world because of choices they make and choices other people make. It's not quite the same as luck.
He does not know if he is comforted by this thought.
It's endemic to them.
They can do it without thinking, without feeling, or he can. He considers himself in tune with her emotions but sometimes he pretends not to be. It's safer. He is not sure weather or not she thinks or feels but he thinks she does neither.
He decides that's okay because everyone wants, it is human and she is only human.
He thinks of her wants but not of his, despite the fact that he is human as well and just as deserving. Sometimes it's about the sacrifices. He never questions the fact that she makes no sacrifices for him, because maybe she does.
And even if she didn't, he doesn't mind. His fits snugly into his role, it's endemic. He does it even if it is dangerous, even if it is unhealthy.
Even if it kills him.
His action is simple and yet profound.
When it is over and the heat subsided and they are breathing next to each other on the bed but not touching, as she is about to drift to sleep like she has so many times before, he reaches over. His arm touches her and for on brief instant in this frozen time he wonders about the rules they adhere to.
He decides they do not matter.
He feels her skin under his touch and it is different then before. She stiffens because she does not expect it. He wraps his arm around her front and rests his hand on her shoulder. Her hair is soft and smells of strawberry shampoo and sex, which only makes sense.
She does not speak, does not question him even though he knows the questions are in her mind. She is a taciturn individual and prefers the silence and the perpetual darkness in her own mind. He used to think this trait odd because of all the questions that he can see in her eyes. He just accepts it now, it is not hard. He lets her have her darkness and her silence, mostly because he dose not know how to save her from it.
He thinks maybe she needs this. Perhaps, though, this is only a lie he tells himself to relieve some of the guilt. He wonders if he should feel guilt, because he finds he does not. He finds he feels very little really. He wonders if he should be bothered by this.
He listens to her breath for a while, in and out, in a steady rhythm. He wonders if she is asleep but he knows she is not. He dose not think he will fall asleep soon and knows he will not. He thinks about how it is strange that they can do this, have sex and not touch afterwards, sleep in the same bed and not touch.
He thinks it strange that they do not touch at all really and wonders how he has gone without touching her, because he never has, not really. He thinks about the irony as he makes this realization.
He feels her heartbeat again his chest, her lungs drawing in air. He knows her eyes are still open and he doesn't shut his. He hears and feels her sigh and then her breath begins to slow. He knows she is drifting off to sleep and he smiles.
He likes this, he thinks this is good, this is perfect. He hopes, before he shuts his eyes and sleeps himself, that this feeling will remain until the morning. He knows it won't.
Like so many things it will be snatched up by the darkness.
He thinks about the Angel of Death and the Angel of Mercy.
Really he thinks about the idea of the Angel of Death and the Angel of Mercy. More specifically he thinks about the difference between the two.
He wonders, if people could be angels, if someone could be both.
I love you.
He says this even though he knows it is a dangerous thing. He says this in the dawn light, not the darkness. He says it so the black of the night can not snatch his words up and the abyss can't suck them away and she'll hear the words, she must. He says this with his arm around her. He says this even though he knows what will happen. He thinks he has lost control.
He wonders briefly if he ever had control to begin with and decides it doesn't matter.
No you don't.
No. You don't. You're using me, and I'm using you. There is no love.
He thinks maybe he can live with that. He thinks he may have to.
He can always pretend.
She twists out of his grasp but he holds her tight. He kisses her, another thing he is never done before, not afterward, not when it might mean something. He wonders if this is also against the rules, but he doesn't care. It is a soft, quick, chaste kiss. Then he lets her go. She sits up and looks at him. There is a confused expression on her face. He sees fear in her eyes, just a little, mixed among the confusion. He wonders what she is afraid of, but only for a moment. He dose not really need to wonder. He knows.
He knows her too well.
I don't love you.
Her voice is hesitant and he wonders why. It is another thing he does not need to wonder about but he does anyway. In brings some order to his thought and he needs that for some reason. He wonders why his heart rate hasn't increased. He thinks it should, but it doesn't.
He thinks about how they keep this equanimity despite the situation. He does not really find it surprising though.
His voice is steady, and he wonders how he keeps the tremors out. They are looking at each other and that confusion is still evident in her eyes, along with the fear. He wonders if she can read him as well as he can read her. He thinks so. He wonders what she sees in his eyes.
You don't love me.
He knows it is a question even though not in her voice betrays that. He knows because he can see her eyes. The fear is almost gone.
The world really is a fucked up place if things like this can exist and thrive.
He decides that is okay, really.
Sometimes he wonders. He wonders what the truth is and what is only for pretend. Sometimes he can not separate them and so he wonders. He wonders which is real and which is only a facade.
He decides that he does not care. Some things don't matter because they are not about truth or lies, reality or pretend. Some things are not about logic and sense.
Some things are only about how fucked up the world is, and that's okay, really.