worldofmutes
A big metal fan
- Joined
- Jan 3, 2020
- Messages
- 401
She stared up at the stars tonight and told herself with all of her heart that she doesn’t love him anymore. She’s told herself this so many times under these same, troubled stars. Nothing he did could make her love him, not for all the of stars in the milky way. His problem was that he couldn’t accept that, never could see himself for what he really was; beneath the surface of his innocent veneer, he was boisterous, immodest, beseeching. He knew too, that he couldn’t love a sick woman, and the more he tried to love her sickness, the sicker she became.
So while the stars shimmered beyond the zenith, casting in it’s path a parabola across complex webs of dense vacuum and reaching the threshold of her eyes, she relented that, Yes, I did love him, once. She could never have loved him again, no matter. Seemingly, it was a long and sinistrous path to one anti-climax, a sort of overhurling of antipathy. No, there was nothing there.
Like the stars in the vague outline of deities, he struggled to grasp their shapes, and the shape of things to come. Things that the Gods had foreseen. It wasn’t practicable for him to finally understand that, not a soul loved another uninhibited, eschewing all conditions of self- and self-less fulfillment. For love to blossom, it must have been under a star, it must have been fated truly.
What did I do wrong? He asked, over and over again, but only the cockroaches could bare witness to his pathetic charade. Certainly, he knew; for it was always there from the beginning. No, he was a petulant child of abandonment. He knew the fortune, and not the substance. Wasn’t it he, the very curator, who diminished in his own eyes the suitors he might’ve claimed, had he been compelling, arresting? Had he neglected pursuit of serenity for a proud and obsequious quest for purpose? His beliefs about the world would forsake ritual, custom, gallantry. All that was to be done was to obliterate his opposition- fear, a landscape of anxieties within: overcome fear, be courageous, and create madness within a vessel of iniquity.
Kinship never meant throwing all cards on the table; it was never meant to compensate for identity. The love he felt for her became his very identity, enraptured and embraced between a reckless game of wit, and malice; without the fruition of his epodes, he would just be another failure- yet, it didn’t bother him. What bothered him most was the belief that he would never know the love of a woman again; for underneath the posterior is an insufferable itch- some caustic displacement that begs him, please- somebody love him. Even a father couldn’t love a son who lived indiscriminately for unconventional morals.
The reason she sits in the light of her stars is that, perhaps she has found a new intrigue; someone who knows his value, a man who doesn’t bite off more than he can chew. Actually, a man who can, in fact, chew, with his mouth closed! The pressure of his touch, the force behind his words. The pull of his eyes. It never mattered to her what he had been through for her, it only mattered that he would stand for something, something that wasn’t her.
Feelings recede like an electric bulb burning out. Our heart’s marrow shapes whom we choose to recognize as lover’s and admirers. No matter what they tell themselves, she is beautiful; more beautiful than the stardust of Perseus. And he was not beneath her dignity, in other words- he stumbled upon her, fell into her, and she rejected his advance. She deserved the kingdom, it’s castle, and all of it’s cavalry. Something he could have given her, once. If love can’t blossom naturally, than neither can reality. And so the story goes…
So while the stars shimmered beyond the zenith, casting in it’s path a parabola across complex webs of dense vacuum and reaching the threshold of her eyes, she relented that, Yes, I did love him, once. She could never have loved him again, no matter. Seemingly, it was a long and sinistrous path to one anti-climax, a sort of overhurling of antipathy. No, there was nothing there.
Like the stars in the vague outline of deities, he struggled to grasp their shapes, and the shape of things to come. Things that the Gods had foreseen. It wasn’t practicable for him to finally understand that, not a soul loved another uninhibited, eschewing all conditions of self- and self-less fulfillment. For love to blossom, it must have been under a star, it must have been fated truly.
What did I do wrong? He asked, over and over again, but only the cockroaches could bare witness to his pathetic charade. Certainly, he knew; for it was always there from the beginning. No, he was a petulant child of abandonment. He knew the fortune, and not the substance. Wasn’t it he, the very curator, who diminished in his own eyes the suitors he might’ve claimed, had he been compelling, arresting? Had he neglected pursuit of serenity for a proud and obsequious quest for purpose? His beliefs about the world would forsake ritual, custom, gallantry. All that was to be done was to obliterate his opposition- fear, a landscape of anxieties within: overcome fear, be courageous, and create madness within a vessel of iniquity.
Kinship never meant throwing all cards on the table; it was never meant to compensate for identity. The love he felt for her became his very identity, enraptured and embraced between a reckless game of wit, and malice; without the fruition of his epodes, he would just be another failure- yet, it didn’t bother him. What bothered him most was the belief that he would never know the love of a woman again; for underneath the posterior is an insufferable itch- some caustic displacement that begs him, please- somebody love him. Even a father couldn’t love a son who lived indiscriminately for unconventional morals.
The reason she sits in the light of her stars is that, perhaps she has found a new intrigue; someone who knows his value, a man who doesn’t bite off more than he can chew. Actually, a man who can, in fact, chew, with his mouth closed! The pressure of his touch, the force behind his words. The pull of his eyes. It never mattered to her what he had been through for her, it only mattered that he would stand for something, something that wasn’t her.
Feelings recede like an electric bulb burning out. Our heart’s marrow shapes whom we choose to recognize as lover’s and admirers. No matter what they tell themselves, she is beautiful; more beautiful than the stardust of Perseus. And he was not beneath her dignity, in other words- he stumbled upon her, fell into her, and she rejected his advance. She deserved the kingdom, it’s castle, and all of it’s cavalry. Something he could have given her, once. If love can’t blossom naturally, than neither can reality. And so the story goes…