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| A Million Lights http://horrorworld.org/msgboards/viewtopic.php?f=125&t=6775 |
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| Author: | BBerntson [ Fri Aug 14, 2009 11:30 am ] |
| Post subject: | A Million Lights |
There are only so many, million lights, and all those dim, some unaccounted for. It doesn't always matter, really, what you say or do, but how you feel inside that matters most. You never know when the end will come. You can never prepare enough for the pain you feel. These words might seem meaningless and empty overall to the way things go and how things, are. Someone may never read them or care. It doesn't matter. The time comes, like it sometimes does, to pour out the bitter remains of what is left of your wracked and bleeding heart. You find yourself in the midst of True Love, and wonder if you are blind. You thought it was True Love, but maybe you were wrong. True Love is forgiving, and not angry. He could not forgive himself, despite her telling him she forgave him, and he was always angry, this beast, Anger, that was killing him, something he thought he was done with until now. You wonder how contrite your heart has to be before you can be forgiven. Is this pain not proof enough? Is this heart not bleeding still? Is this mind, wrought with the worst of diabolical thoughts, not plaguing, tormenting, and destroying me? Is it not enough that you constantly try, but make the worst of mistakes? He goes and he comes back again through it all, knowing what he knows, gaining what he gains, mourning all his losses, his defeats, making light of his triumphs, never seeing the big picture, the way things really are, what kind of gentleman he really is, his concern for others, his candor, his gentle, persuasive touches that speak louder than words. There is no amorous quality there. It was never about that. It was the simple silence, the wholesome love children feel when holding hands. That was the height of his intensity. Nothing had murdered and destroyed that brain. Nothing had corrupted, at least not yet, that perfectly guilded, innocent heart. It is all sincerity, genuine affection, the love he has for another, and the silence that speaks in those touches that are spoken. There is only one heart here, in this cage, this breast, and it goes on beating despite its shame, trying hard not to look inward, but feeling nothing but remorse, and the pain that comes from a brutal mistake. Happy tears? Not so much now, despite the perfection they'd created, the love they shared, the laughter, the time in the pool, the music played, Across the Universe, and back again. Their lives met when they were no longer needy, beholden to others, trapped in the destructive, vicious cycle of unhealthy drama and pain. This was the togetherness that found itself somehow through hope, through the sensation that the timing had finally clicked, and that Time, itself, became utterly meaningless. How else could they already know each other for a thousand days? How else could everything seem so right and pure, the door he opened, the risk he took to let her in despite the broken road he traveled? She accepted him regardless with only love, and perfect acceptance. He could not believe his eyes and ears. He would continue to feel broken, however. There was only so much poetry he could create. All of it meaningless now. Without her, the world, the love he had, the passion he felt, the life he wanted to live, all meaningless. Tears were in abundance, that anguish that crept inside like burning embers, daggers, broken nails, shards or glass, the empty, unwanted pain that only love could procure. That was here now, despite the month they'd had. He thought about the times he knew more about love and success, how he'd wondered... Was there a story here? Did that even matter anymore? What were stories, the passions he felt, the nightmares, night times, and the beauties he tried to create compared to all this? When he said he was sorry, did it matter? When he tried to express, he failed to let her express herself as well. The tumult that ensued. Where did all this misunderstanding come from all of a sudden? What happened to the time at the park when they read and she'd cried, the feeling that being with her was Home. Did it matter anymore that they still loved, and that they couldn't reconcile after all the pain they felt? How much more sorry could he be? How much of a grovelling, sniveling child could he make himself out to be? Was there a spine there? Was he a man at all? He tried to echo what his heart felt, but still the accusation, that he was placing all this on her, when he'd never been more sorry. No, he'd never been more sorry. His feeling, his contrite heart, his suffering was the action that proved how much he cared, the fact that he would try harder, and that he knew it inside, the promises he'd made, but, of course, she'd heard all that before. He was helpless. He'd never felt more helpless in his life. There were the meals they'd made, the gondola ride, the sunbonnet, sunflowers, the feeling of being on top of the world, the fantasy they'd walked into, the miracle he'd felt being with her, the fact that he couldn't speak. Those tears, those sorrows weren't enough. Would it matter? Had he not truly proved his love already, despite the mistakes he'd made? Was he the only one here? Where was that echo coming from? Did people who really loved each other treat the other this way? Was this pain normal so early in the game? And yet, he loved. Was that why, when the pain came, that it hurt as badly as it did? Was that why this pain was so acute, so intense above the others? That he loved this much, in ways he never felt, in ways he never imagined, that when the pain came, it was destructive. How could anyone live through worse pain? How could anything worse allow someone to survive? Made of metal he was not. He lived and would die by his own heart, by what he felt and thought, what he knew was right. What he learned now was that he was capable of making more mistakes than he had before. A life with someone else will create a whole new set of challenges and complications. Love, he thought. What kind of love was this? What kind of heart did he have that he would do whatever he could to reconcile himself against the horrible, unforgivable things he'd said? The things she would never forget, may never forgive, the times he repeated the cycle before, in times past, when he was even more unstable now? Did that beast show any sign of the True Love he thought it was? Had he not thought that she was the perfect woman for him? Had they not laughed like children only moments ago, only to turn to this? How could everything be so easily sacrificed after the magic they'd felt? Was that True Love? He'd never believed in God, at least not with surety, until this happened. Could this kind of thing be mere chance? He'd told everybody about her, introduced her to all his friends, the way he wanted them to love and accept her, and she, them, in return. How often was this pain going to come now? How many more mistakes would he make? He could not predict the future, that was all he knew. Could he spend his life walking on eggshells, afraid of everything he'd say? Was that a life well spent? Was he not broken already? How long had it been since they'd had fun? Did fun exist anymore, laughter? But it wasn't about him. It was about her, and the silent way they could be comfortable together, the way she looked at him, laid on top of him, her entire body on his chest and the conversations they'd had. God, the mesmerizing, magically dynamic conversations! Didn't that mean something? Was he so selfish, so wrapped up in his life that he couldn't see it? Why did he always feel like it was never enough, when he'd felt like he'd done all he could? Did those hurtful things, those mistakes he made, overshadow all the beauty they'd created. This hurt, he thought. This lance, racing through my breast. This impalement, the worst. Where is the right thing? What is the right thing to do? I did not show her I loved her. How can I across the miles? What can I do? Forever out of reach, unable to see her, when she doesn't want to see me, unable to speak, when she doesn't want to hear me? I cannot fly. I cannot fly. I called in sick to spend the day thinking of her, trying to find every way imaginable to broadcast, to express the way I feel, but I guess this isn't action enough. Maybe this is a good way to die. These words. Are they just words, these feelings just feelings. Nothing matters. Does anything matter anymore? The most extraordinary woman I ever met, more supportive and loving, but she gets mad, too. She has feelings, too, fears, hopes, dreams? So, what was this sickness in his gut if not genuine remorse, this feeling of utterly hopelessness, regret already, the pain that came with all his torment. The fact that he showed a lack of respect for her because of that demon Anger. The fact that he overrode, like a beast, the things she was trying to say. The fact that he hadn't treated her like a lady, and realized he was no gentleman. Were these things unforgivable? Maybe so, but he had to try. He could not let this go, let it sit there, collecting a staleness, a rancor, a beast fed by evil, hatred, but instead, turned inside out, a billion stars, once dim, no longer black, but teeming with life and energy, the spiral of his heart, the open door, instead of the locked vault, the vulnerability that opened him up to rejection, and the pain he would have to live with, if it came again. There wasn't enough steel to protect his heart. It was a risk. A place he'd never been before, a place he was still learning to live with, to understand, to learn, and God, he hoped, to grow. All he could do was be there for her, to listen, to hope the next time, that he would do it right. That he would promise to try, and that was all he could do. He was not a superhero. He was wrong, and he admitted he was wrong. If there was more he could do, he wasn't aware of it. He needed help from some unknown source, a miracle to enlighten him. Some Golden Sun. A sunflower, a sunbonnet, a ray of light. She was the heart that put him here in love. |
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