The pain of separation -- UGH -- The pain of it!
Imagine this -- the boy whose face you fell in love with first time you saw it -- those pouty lips, that mockably deep voice, those buck teeth that make you giggle in amusement every time he smiles at you. The boy who can't stop smiling, who needs no pretext to burst into little conspiratorial giggles. You adore it, simply love it; it makes you imagine what it would be like to have him lying on the bed next to you while you tickle his stomach and he doubles up in peals of uncontrolled laughter. Oh, the pleasure of it! Oh, the pleasure of even the thought! The boy who makes you so happy just to be around, the boy who makes you laugh and laugh at life, at everything. The boy you love.
You met him three days ago. It's a crush -- that's all. Yet in the world you live in, famished of lovely boys, one sweet little creature like that can make you spend unhealthily long periods of time thinking about him. Make you dream about him, his movements, his gregarious nature, his constant babble. He is as sweet as a cherry-flavoured-fox-clear candy. Being with him is as delightful as sucking on it except that the feeling is spread over hours or as long as you have him with you.
And then comes the separation. Life truly is a bitch, no matter how many times you say that, re-emphasis always brings a mild contentment.
The sweet boy asks you out with a couple of friends and as far as you are concerned, nothing, absolutely nothing could keep you from going. The only decision to make is what to wear. Which shade of lipstick to wear. How thickly to dab it on. How to wear your hair. Which side of the head to let the wisps fall on. Whether to use perfumed bath gel and which scent to mix it with, post bath.
Those are the decisions-the finer ones - the artistic ones -- the delicate decisions of how to create a truly beautiful work of art -- you -- for the boy to see. How to shock the boy into the realisation that you are beautiful and worth hitting on. How to hit him with it. Those are the decisions. Complex and fine ones.
Yet real life is ugly. Blunt and smelly and large and ugly. Like a large sickle covered with bloodstains of rust, your mother swipes off the head of your fondest dreams. Whack! Off with its head! She says. And your hopes go flying like a severed head with blood dripping of the neck, tangled hair soaked in it.
At night you lie in bed. The thoughts are agonising, irritating, depressing to say the least. Far away, separated by many kilometres of space, he sits in a pub -- lights dimmed, loud music, little spots of light playing on his face. His grinning buck teeth glistening neon. His heart and mind high on a couple of drinks, his temperament a million times sweeter, a little more eager. Just perfect for you, to fill the void in you. There he is, swaying to the music, as open as ever to any stimuli you might ever, but won't ever, send to him. So easy in concept, but so hard in the constrains of reality. He is swaying softly to the music, his pouty lips full of promise of the sweetest words which can send your heart racing to a body-jarring stop. The possibilities, all lying packed and queued up at the edge of a waterfall, but somehow glued there, frozen, waxen. The cascade at its highest point of potentiality -- ready to burst, to bathe you with thrilling, spine chilling delight. Just hanging there, precariously -- the cold silken layers of milky pleasures churning continuously into ecstasy but never quite getting there.
And here you lie on your bed, warm weather flapping against your
skin. The night sky outside your window, illuminated by the dead city's
lights. Dead quiet. Only boring peals of drunken laughter from the next
door brats for stimuli. Here you lie in the dead quiet far away from it all,
separated, severed, torn, stretched and lifeless. Separation is irresolvable.
© 2002 Dingbat, all rights reserved
appears here by permission
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