Without purpose.
I carry discarded soda cans down the stairs to the kitchen and pass by his room. The door is open and he is at his desk, playing with the speakers on his computer.
I wander in and lie down on his bed. He glances at me, nods distractedly, and continues to play. Now he selects a song with deep, pounding bass; now he selects a computer-generated trill that starts near the sub-sonic and ranges upward seemingly without end; now he sends music scampering in a circle around the room as the speakers simulate a band in motion. The computer's display, the only light in the room, casts a pale glow over his face. His eyes flicker about the screen; a smile crosses his lips as he finds a sound he enjoys; his brow furrows as he ponders how to improve the mix of an inferior tune. He is untroubled, uncomplicated, interested only in the intricacies of audiophilia.
It is his independence, his self-sufficiency that draws me to him. He has no needs and no wants; he simply is. I love him intensely, intently, but without purpose. I crave his love; he offers friendship. I seek his affection; he offers companionship. I am filled with desire; he smiles, perplexed and concerned, but is unable to respond. I close my eyes, and see myself holding him as I once could, feeling his love as I once did, knowing the contentment that I once knew. But to relive what was, and is no more, is perilous, and without purpose. So I open my eyes, as I must, and tell him good night, as I must, and walk out the door and back up the stairs.
I wander in and lie down on his bed. He glances at me, nods distractedly, and continues to play. Now he selects a song with deep, pounding bass; now he selects a computer-generated trill that starts near the sub-sonic and ranges upward seemingly without end; now he sends music scampering in a circle around the room as the speakers simulate a band in motion. The computer's display, the only light in the room, casts a pale glow over his face. His eyes flicker about the screen; a smile crosses his lips as he finds a sound he enjoys; his brow furrows as he ponders how to improve the mix of an inferior tune. He is untroubled, uncomplicated, interested only in the intricacies of audiophilia.
It is his independence, his self-sufficiency that draws me to him. He has no needs and no wants; he simply is. I love him intensely, intently, but without purpose. I crave his love; he offers friendship. I seek his affection; he offers companionship. I am filled with desire; he smiles, perplexed and concerned, but is unable to respond. I close my eyes, and see myself holding him as I once could, feeling his love as I once did, knowing the contentment that I once knew. But to relive what was, and is no more, is perilous, and without purpose. So I open my eyes, as I must, and tell him good night, as I must, and walk out the door and back up the stairs.