clinging to the wreckage

I sit here in the early morning darkness, sipping a cup of coffee that reminds me of the desolate isolation that encompasses me now and stretches out before me like a vast and empty ocean. The love in my life, the beauty of youth, has departed to find fulfilment in other people and things but I am kept company by this familiar feeling of loss and sadness. There is relief too for there is no longer pressure to provide happiness or comfort or love or laughter or hope or help to another one so close and so meaningful. I gave all I could but ultimately loved too much and hoped for too much love in return. Too much love is like none at all, it pushes people away and sends them spiralling into the wilderness of dreams of something better. We spend much of our lives searching for better but when we finally find it, we find it in someone who is searching for better. We all lose.

Christ, I am so tired of seeing the photos of their meaningless perpetuation. Perpetuation of the suffering, the banality, the tradition, the blind following of faith and instinct and rules and dogma and orthodoxy. Perpetuation of stupidity, of poverty, of grim hopeless pathetic reality. And when I say ‘Christ’, I speak not of their Christ, I speak of some other weak and hopeless feeble Christ who will just as much listen to my pleas for help as will theirs. I am tired of it all… tired of them all… just tired.

From my earliest memory I have been tortured and tormented by longing and desire: Desire to share a few moments with a particular person, the one person of that moment who seemed to be beyond everyone else in their unique qualities. I still recall the smell, the light, the time during primary school when, at approximately ten years of age, I’d feel a great panging of loss as a film would beam onto the huge screen in the hall to celebrate the last day of school before the holidays and for me those holidays only meant a time when I would not see this person. We did not have computers or the internet, phones or social media and there was absolutely no hope of contact, the holidays were simply a long and stretched out period of isolation. The school would close for the summer and I would linger with my friends at the gate hoping for one last glance, or for something miraculous to happen and to share a few words. I remember a different time, in high school, when I st

Outside they play… and make noises like wild animals. The noises match their behaviour and, in most cases, their intellects. There is no attempt, or perhaps no ability, to fight the primitive impulses that they feel. Primitive impulses can be a good thing, of course, but there is also the need, at times, for composure, control, reason, empathy, compassion, kindness and respect… respect for others and for one’s self. Add one or two insecurities and even the intellectuals join in. Their quest for self-validation knows no limits as they transform themselves, and others, into objects. Men using women and women using men. The drunkest, the loudest, these are the proudest as they do anything they possibly can to be the funny one of the crowd. They hurl abuse at the innocents walking by and this is their form of entertainment.

I miss the smell of your cigarettes. I miss the sight of you sitting sensually sipping a glass of red wine whilst a cigarette burns between your fingers. Slightly inebriated you would discuss everything from the folly of traditional relationships through the hopelessness of social networking to the problems of modern politics and I would listen with a smile on my face and try to resist the violent urge to get up and kiss you. A few hundred metres down the road you’re alone, playing piano, and I am here, alone, writing this note and wondering what the future holds for two who are lonely and lost, self-destructive and sensitive.

I am starting to look upon what you have done as a stroke of genius. At the peak of happiness, whilst things were going better than they had at any previous point, you severed the connection. In effect, you have immortalised what we had and never can we look back to say it was banal and boring. We will not simply tolerate mediocrity from others because we are used to better… we are almost still on a high from knowing better. And yet, people may ask, ‘why end it?’. Well, both of us know, we’ve always known, that there is no future. For the sensitive, creative, tormented, artistic, musical, literary soul there is no peace in convention of any kind when it becomes long term and, thus, to sever the alliance now ensures that it will always remain a sweet memory. But the fact remains, I miss you and your unique ways. Now I go on alone once more and, as for you... something else.

She lies beside me, so silent and peaceful. I'm awake, reading, drinking coffee. I need less sleep because I'm a lot older than her. Her skin, pale, soft, firm and her hair beautiful and dark to form a gothic contrast. A magnificent beauty. A powerful intellect. A creative and independent force that will not bend. She holds my heart in her hand and I hope that when she crushes it she does it gently and swiftly. And, amazingly, the day after writing the above, she appeared, a black shadow, lurking in the dark corner, and coldly told me it was over. It seemed that things had finally started to go wonderfully well but, of a sudden, all is lost, love is dead. ‘tis time to move on, alone, once more.