It was late when my phone beeped and I was tired, as much from the sleep deprivation that had been building for several weeks as the fact I awoke at 4:30am. But I get ahead of myself. . .
I arose in darkness. I looked at the moon as I stretched my aching muscles and prepared myself to embrace the high point of my day before it even began. Then I ran through the deserted campus streets. I ran by a classroom where many test takers had suffered en masse yet each one alone in their struggle. I smiled as I thought that their mental sweat and my perspiration might bind me in some small way to so many other people. I couldn’t see it too well though, which I liked; the morning fog and the steam rising from my body were clouding my glasses. My other senses weren’t much use either. But I did not slow down, and so the classroom fell behind by short quick strides, like the smile that it brought, like everything else. This was the life I had chosen I reminded myself with an odd mix of sorrow and pride. Discipline, and dedication were my patron gods, and this was my morning prayer; I finished the hymn of endurance. Dreary and hungry, I greeted the dawn with a scowl, ready to face it with my emotions once again held in check by my mediations of pain.
The day blurred together, hours in lectures on various subjects without a significant challenge, other than keeping my eyes open, which was challenge enough. A smile or two, a few fleeting conversations, none with great meaning, drown in tedium and self control. Around eight PM I pushed my key into the door, heard the familiar creak as it swung and knew, with a pang of homesickness; I was home. As I looked back, it was not the day in particular that saddened me, but the fact I had no friend with which to share this brief time I had to myself.
For you see there was no room for friendship or anything more in the schedule, my planner had no circled Fridays or Saturdays. I could imagine what such escapades might include; the people I lived among were not secretive, they had no reason to be. I wished for another life as I planned the next days lunch meeting, but while every plan worked like clockwork, wishes proved less reliable.
On nights such as this, I thought of you. I did not care particularly what you were doing, or how you were feeling, the dream that you did in fact exist in some far off place was enough for me. You were not a person but a phantom or a spirit to which I sent prayers by cell phone or email never expecting a reply. A spirit is all you could be, a half-formed visage of an alternate past. By necessity you were dead to me, and I did not know the shape of your body well enough to give you a more corporeal form, so I had no choice but to cast you as a ghost. A more fitting partner to, (and comment on,) the shadow of a man I had become was not to be found.
Halloween came in mid September by way of the irritated chirp of my phone reporting a missed call. As I listened to your brief message I found myself repeating “I love you, I love you, I love you” softly into the deaf phone over and over again. Suddenly giddy, I dropped what I was doing, decided I could do with less sleep tonight, dialed your number, and waited. When I heard you suddenly the day was worth it, the weeks were worth it, everything was worth it; just for this fifteen seconds.
We talked, of what I don’t remember, and I don’t care. We discussed our lives, both would have seemed dull if transcribed here, but didn’t seem so then. It seemed nothing could ever be dull or drab or normal again. Similar to how the reality of a dream seems far more vivid than reality and therefore cannot be true, you were brighter than my world, and so you seemed a fantasy.
Across the miles, and years, beyond the borders of reality, just inside my imagination I had held my love for you imprisoned. For a moment through a weak cell phone signal it was free, and I let it slip that I had written “something about you, er, I mean for you.” When you asked to read it, I was taken aback and said perhaps in six months or a year, when it was done. . . with difficulty I moved the conversation elsewhere.
Of course the damage, and the writing, is already done, but my love for you is still too innocent to bear the harsh whips of reality, so for now I will hide it as best I can, and maybe in six months or a year. . . I will show you that piece. Until then I will go on greeting each day with a scowl, running through the darkness pursued by a ghost of a past that never was.
| with a pang of homesickness i was home|
this line is the best example of the incredibly honest emotion of this peice. prolly own't get as many commentes because it's so contextually connected to a specific place, (ie college)
but as i told you before moot, it's awesome. Much Love.
|| Posted on 2006-11-04 00:00:00 | by AptPupilofLife2 | [ Reply to This ] |