Silly Spies....
Silly Spies.
"What are you talking about?" Desi inquired. "What contrivances?"
All she could do was stare. It wasn't that she was caught off guard; it wasn't that she didn't have an answer because she had many, but it was that she knew that he knew what she was talking of. He was contrived, this relationship was contrived, and everything to do with, was also, contrived. How could he even bother to ask in his knowful tone? How could he keep a straight face while doing so? So much time spent in a lie, so much energy wasted. And for what?
Maybe, if they had been in it together; like a couple of Soviet spies in cold war America. They would pose as a couple, get secret information knowing all the time it was a sham. They wouldn't care. How could you, you were to busy with being a spy to care, and that is were it hurt; that is what it came down to, caring! He didn't care, and she did. She cared too much. Him, not at all. Or, maybe he cared some. If he did, she did not want to know, it could only hurt more.
She left immediately. Out the door. Down the hall. Gone. In this kind of relationship, things do not accumulate because the end is inevitable.
Desi tried to remain oblivious for as long as he could. In the end, his mind would not let him. Secrets will out, and he knew why this happened, but, he did not care.
'Everything before and everything after seems to be the same.' He thinks. 'Jane is right. Of course, I had always known she was right, because I commit these acts alone. A double agent, I even betray my own.'
Later he would dream of old acquaintances, who would eternally rake him with looks of accusation, and contempt. Always the same dream. Always. Then he would wake up in a sweat; remember the faces of some, sometimes a smell. Desi wouldn't cry, though, he was far to removed from these triggers for that. But, nostalgia has certain other emotional products. A subjectless gaze, blank expression, and a lethargy not unlike depression. Yet, this is not depression. Make no mistake. Depression gives no reason 'why' to the depressed, nostalgia gives every reason why you are this way. There is no prescription for nostalgia other than what a doctor won't prescribe: Alcohol, drugs, whatever you get your hands on. Of course, for Desi it had been a short trip for curing nostalgia with these. They just didn't last long enough. Another option, then, was suicide, just end it all; but where does that leave him, a dead body. To proud for something so lowly, so cowardly. The thought of suicide may seem romantic to some, but it just seemed like a waste of time to Desi. He needed to shut it out. Memory is a curse, a something to be damned. Hindsight is always 20/20 and he wanted cataracts bad. Of course, he could make himself an amnesiac, but, isn't that suicide of different kind? At least, if it is voluntary? What a strange concept. Yet, fear of the physical pain comes to play here. No desire to feel the pain necessary to make one forget, and it is not even a guarantee that you will forget. What to do then, what to do?
Sleep. Sleep now, and sleep later. Sleep for as long as one can. Until you can sleep some more. Even though, it is no guarantee against memory, it is a buffer. So, sleep away time into time immemorial. The future will be known in dreams and that is all the past will remain.
Fin.
That exercise is done. Had to write something. Yes, in fact, for anyone who read this, it was provoked by a dream.
"What are you talking about?" Desi inquired. "What contrivances?"
All she could do was stare. It wasn't that she was caught off guard; it wasn't that she didn't have an answer because she had many, but it was that she knew that he knew what she was talking of. He was contrived, this relationship was contrived, and everything to do with, was also, contrived. How could he even bother to ask in his knowful tone? How could he keep a straight face while doing so? So much time spent in a lie, so much energy wasted. And for what?
Maybe, if they had been in it together; like a couple of Soviet spies in cold war America. They would pose as a couple, get secret information knowing all the time it was a sham. They wouldn't care. How could you, you were to busy with being a spy to care, and that is were it hurt; that is what it came down to, caring! He didn't care, and she did. She cared too much. Him, not at all. Or, maybe he cared some. If he did, she did not want to know, it could only hurt more.
She left immediately. Out the door. Down the hall. Gone. In this kind of relationship, things do not accumulate because the end is inevitable.
Desi tried to remain oblivious for as long as he could. In the end, his mind would not let him. Secrets will out, and he knew why this happened, but, he did not care.
'Everything before and everything after seems to be the same.' He thinks. 'Jane is right. Of course, I had always known she was right, because I commit these acts alone. A double agent, I even betray my own.'
Later he would dream of old acquaintances, who would eternally rake him with looks of accusation, and contempt. Always the same dream. Always. Then he would wake up in a sweat; remember the faces of some, sometimes a smell. Desi wouldn't cry, though, he was far to removed from these triggers for that. But, nostalgia has certain other emotional products. A subjectless gaze, blank expression, and a lethargy not unlike depression. Yet, this is not depression. Make no mistake. Depression gives no reason 'why' to the depressed, nostalgia gives every reason why you are this way. There is no prescription for nostalgia other than what a doctor won't prescribe: Alcohol, drugs, whatever you get your hands on. Of course, for Desi it had been a short trip for curing nostalgia with these. They just didn't last long enough. Another option, then, was suicide, just end it all; but where does that leave him, a dead body. To proud for something so lowly, so cowardly. The thought of suicide may seem romantic to some, but it just seemed like a waste of time to Desi. He needed to shut it out. Memory is a curse, a something to be damned. Hindsight is always 20/20 and he wanted cataracts bad. Of course, he could make himself an amnesiac, but, isn't that suicide of different kind? At least, if it is voluntary? What a strange concept. Yet, fear of the physical pain comes to play here. No desire to feel the pain necessary to make one forget, and it is not even a guarantee that you will forget. What to do then, what to do?
Sleep. Sleep now, and sleep later. Sleep for as long as one can. Until you can sleep some more. Even though, it is no guarantee against memory, it is a buffer. So, sleep away time into time immemorial. The future will be known in dreams and that is all the past will remain.
Fin.
That exercise is done. Had to write something. Yes, in fact, for anyone who read this, it was provoked by a dream.