"I do not know how to craft a meaningful story. I have read words sculpted to bear semblance to the things that matter, without preaching directly. I have studied the poets and the novel writers and other thinkers; I have reviewed student thoughts for the university’s scholastic and creative journal. And yet, I am here, pen and empty page before me, with thoughts as unoriginal as a box of cornflakes.
"How do I tell you that I loved a boy much like Percy Shelley? How do I tell you that I’ve cradled the heart of yet another in my hand, that its blood still emanates and follows the pull of gravity from between my fingers, that I squeeze the heart with vengeance now, instead of pure, unadulterated love? How do I share with you my deepest fears that, like their owner, are unoriginal and predictable: I will never love someone as I did F. or P., ghosts will never cease to dance between the walls of this temple, I will forever be afraid to put words on a page—perhaps to expel the ghosts, perhaps to be a writer--? My last concern, at least, is somewhat soothed.
"Do you know what it is like to be graced with beauty’s presence: an open sky, as blue and as soft and as rich as velvet; Mozart’s Sonata in a minor, andante cantabile, like a ribbon encircling you with liberated precision; Van Gogh’s handiwork, the brush strokes as gentle as a caress? If you stand before beauty, you may feel more than one sensation, but all of them overwhelming. Your god-shaped hole may feel it has snagged on beauty’s tip and ripped wide open, and only by that hole will you discover the intensity of lust: for life? for them? for it? for possibility? for peace and the pursuit of happiness, and the lack thereof? The chase is what calls, what temporarily gratifies, what disappoints. The chase beckons, and the chase destroys.
"To the friend who said it is no longer mine, to the one who said it was nonexistent all along, I wish I could give my heart to you, tie it around your neck and let you sink to the bottom of the sea, let you feel just how suffocating this lust can be, let you understand that I am not some flippant, silly creature. Dramatic, to be sure, but not a liar! Not a body motivated by childish notions! No: let me curse you with my heart and see how well you fare! Talk to me then, and beg for mercy."
~Sno
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