I wrote a story. Some of you may know who it's about. Please leave comments under the comments section, not under the shout-box. Oh, since this is a creative work (actually not really, for those that know what I'm talking about), there will be no specific poem today. In fact, if you format this story correctly, it becomes a poem. Meh.
Musings of a Sharded Soul
He wants to love. He does not know how. He sits and types and types and types. And the continuous clicking of the keyboard only goes to reinforce his loneliness. In the background, the one he has a heart for gives him inspiration. She expresses full confidence in his abilities to spin yarn out of thin air, though it is really not his at all. And yet, she sends one of those smilies that warms his heart, to know that somewhere out there, she is feeling a happiness. That in turn makes him glow. And a small smile touches his craggy lips. They hurt, for they are all cracked and dried. He can taste the blood. Grim determination fills his brows, covered by the overhang of long untrimmed hair.
And he wonders, why is it that he told her of his feelings in the first place, when he knew all along that she could not return in kind. Surely enough, he did not expect any. He knew enough not to force anyone in kind. Willingly, he told her, I tell you this because I think you have the right to know, and also to let you know that I don’t expect you to love me in return. And surely, she appreciated his honesty and sacrifice, as much as it laid a guilt on her. And many times she would rather have him let go and love someone else, than to allow him to live on the giving of love, but receiving none.
Indeed he has lived that way. A long three years he spent that way, though not knowing that he was really. And a short two weeks on another continent suddenly brought it all into his conciousness. And he told her. And she replied, I have suspected as much for those three years, as had everyone else. The words hit like a train, a fool, a damned worthless fool he was, that he wasted three years longing for her without knowing. And all the while, braver and more knowing suitors bid for her hand. All unsuccessful. All she turned down, softly and gently as her manner dictated.
He wonders, is it because she also harbours such feelings towards him, or rather that she just did not connect with the others. In his heart he wishes that the first were true, but in his mind he knows that in all likelihood, it was not. Even now, she tries to decipher her deeper emotions, but she does not know how to feel. And, sacrificing as ever, he tells her not to worry. He is strong, yes, and he is more than satisfied to accept his lot as ever; to love and not be loved. And that was all he asked for.
And now, as she tries to offer him hope, that they will figure things out. Indeed, the physical distance between them is a barrier between his hopes, and them fulfilled. But those words offer little solace, for his heart beats for her. It is as if, she does this to console him, but herself has no true feeling for him. He understands her kind gesture, and prays that something will come out of it. But he is laden with the burden of her forcing herself to this gesture. And he feels unease.
Even as she continues to speak with him, his hands type and type, halting now and then. Hands scarred with self-inflicted wounds over the years, for reasons left unknown. He sees the fingers dance on the black keys, fingers that produce glorious strings of words and notes on keyboards of many kinds, also destroy the body they are attached to. He sees no loss, really. He was given the genetic potential to be, shallow as it may seem, beautiful as a male specimen may be. He was given with all the intellectual and material gifts as was required to perfect a male specimen. And he did nothing to deserve them. He threw away his chances at such a young age, although technically blameless to the reasons, he knew that it was his doing in the end.
He does not see the reason why she would continue to be interested in keeping his feelings. Rather, he expected her to turn him down, softly and gently like her manner dictated, but turn him down nonetheless. And in a way, it is painful that she didn’t, because he feels he causes her pain in his admission of love, when knowing that all along it was not to be. He laughs silently as he cries. The poor fool has no perception of emotion but despair, fear, and anger. And all too often has he fallen to the last. And again, he knows he loves but cannot feel. He knows it all to well, and he feels the anger boil. Not at her, but rather at himself.
He does not deserve her. He has nothing to offer. Looks? He has nothing to boast, a rather misshapen rounded fool he is, tall without presence, large with no strength. Intellect? He has nothing to show, his mind is as useful as the next, even the linguistic gifts are worthless in comparison to many others. Feelings? Those he has, though he feels them not, such is the irony of his existence. Soul? Blackness consumes it, and he has no say in who deserves the punishment of having to live with one of such darkness.
He cries an abyssal howl, he knows his worth. And it is not much. Sooner would he have her shoot him and trample on his worthless corpse than have her suffer with his lovesick rambling. And yet, softly and gently as her manner dictates her, she cares for him in the truest sense. A genuine and honest care, but not one of love, but rather platonic concern. He is grateful for that much at least.
She clamours to see the fruits of his fevered typing. In a short time, he has written up a short but twisted description of his mind. She wants to see it, though he knows she will regret it. And he rolls the thought in his mind. Already he has made a mistake, to tell her the one truth that is not dark in his life. And it has caused him more sorrow than when he had to live with the truth alone.
But then, within the recesses of his dark mind, he reasons a reasoning of light. Is there hope, when he tells all. In all naivety, he decided that it would be best to bare his soul to the world, that should it prove beautiful enough, it would be celebrated. But should it be so black that tar drips from it, that it may be thrown to the grown, trampled on and ended like it deserves. He finishes the frantic clicking, sealing the words on these pages. Another time he offers his mind and soul and heart. Another time he risks hurting her, and another time he risks breaking his already sharded soul if she should cry. But then again, who knows what tomorrow will bring?
