I Cannot Imagine

11 11 2006

An Excuse To Live

She pretends to be something for tomorrow because she is not anything today. Between the measures of talent and effort, she certainly leans on the latter, but to say she is verdantly alive, struggling against the tides of the world, is only to believe what she would have you believe. She simplifies the present to convert it into something manageable: I am her lover, you are her audience, and the world her vice. Should I say she is alive? Perhaps, the singing voice in the shower tricks me, makes me believe so.

Life is not life, if it is unexamined. Love, too. She walks by, on the street with not so much as a passing thought on what it means to be human, only concerning herself with the style of the day. I see her, and I see what she would be without me, I can taste the lip gloss on my lips, feel my hand on her bare waist, see the mascara that shades her eyes like a second blindness. The tasteless fashion of it all, and none of it her taste – only that preordained by everyone else. Beyond this, I see the expression of an unneccesary individual’s soul, like an imprint, transformed out of nothing.

To be in love, to fully dissolve into another’s soul; a fertile, restless union of souls binding upon itself, clamoring, not man or woman, such love cannot grow from this sort of ghost. She trusts in me, like a blind man led to his execution, but not innocently. It is a perverse trust, one that presumes too much, one that casts off her responsibility. Her emotional fragility, this feminine construct, is merely a guise (unconscious as it is) to draw me closer. In her opinion, the past is irrevocable, mistakes or not, and therefore not worth consideration. But in her future, so fantastically intangible, she finds redemption, glory, and the person she would like to be. Perhaps she has not become this person, perhaps she is not on track to become this person, perhaps because she is, quite simply, not this person.

I asked her today: tomorrow morning, what will you believe is worth living for? She said, “You.” So tragically rehearsed. So mechanical. But her reflex was like yours; why do you live – love, kids, spouse, family. When we are young and therefore immature, we live for ourselves and those around us live for us as well. When we are older and therefore mature, we live for ourselves and pretend we love. We are so secure in our fashions, we believe that no one completely understands love, that everyone experiences it, that no one can judge it, and all so that we never question anything. We fear “cognitive dissonance,” when actions and beliefs conflict, so much that we cannot imagine comparing these two. So we all live for love, a love of others that we cannot define, cannot substantiate, cannot prove, show, or reproduce. Convenient.

She does not live, but merely pretends to, along with everyone else in city, save for a precious few dying souls seeking out each other desperately. These souls, I fear, walk quietly, because to be alive is more than can be seen. To be alive is to ignore what is not inspiring and rise above it, which is I fear not to listen to the noise sometimes. I do not owe her anything, to be bound to someone in terms of a relationship or anything, requires more than a passing shadow to be attached to. And so I pass, under the guise of being a good honest gentleman, privately dating to find another soul worth loving. I cannot imagine a more honest life.

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