Splendid Isolation

On the fourth night, the curtains parted and the show began at last. Patiently, he sat there with two companions. A tumbler half filled with amber liquid and a small cigar that glowed impossibly red in the darkness. Clouds had hung obstinately between him and sky beyond. Jealously guarding the stars. Now, as they parted, he felt an inexplicable exhilaration. A connection with an optical illusion that had always fascinated.

He dwelt upon this feeling of connection. The stars were impossibly far away. From him. From each other. And yet the night sky was crowded with them tonight. The party was in full swing. Clusters of friends here and there. Satellites making their way from one venue to another. Never finding their place. Nerds with impostor syndrome. Making the effort to put themselves out there. Unable to settle anywhere.

Raising his glass he made a toast both unheard and unseen. The liquid he poured into his mouth burnt. Rocket fuel powering a journey to the unknown and unknowable. As he drew on the cigar and the red glowed brighter, he considered the concept of time. A past that felt closer as he floated in the sea of lights. A future that swam further away and beckoned him forth. The playfulness in it was forced, he knew. There was precious little there for him. Turned out there never had been.

All the same, this was a timeless moment and his being alone held no pain in it. The incessant cheese grater of loneliness let him be, but the thoughts came all the same. He marvelled at that. Marvelled at how anyone could ever be lonely with all those thoughts worrying away at them. The hubbub of anxiety would not afford a soul peace. Trapped in an elevator to nowhere with the muzak turned up to full volume.

The only way he’d found to subdue such thoughts was to create his own. Imposing them upon himself with a force of will. Still, those thoughts were shaped and influenced by their brothers and sisters. A product of their bitter environment. He’d fought them all every step of the way and only now was he reconciling himself to the battles he’d waged upon himself throughout his life.

Now, as he trod carefully over the fallen and read the signs and portents of his personal battlefield, he began to see more clearly. The mists of confusion were lifting and the simplicity of his folly was revealed.

He’d charged at the mirror image of his ego again and again in a vain attempt to beat life into submission. Created a question of win or lose that he must answer in order to live. But there was never any real question of win or lose, and in answering this broken query he’d lost his way.

That mirror image was familiar in the bodies he gazed upon. He’d sought out the image of his mother. Or was it his father? In some respects they were one and the same. After all, his parents had committed the original sin in seeking each other out. Looking for the solution to themselves in another. Too afraid to look inwards and take responsibility for the mess they were making.

A matrimony of blame. All marriages were a blamestorm to one extent or another. All relationships a travesty of escapism. Finding a kindred spirit that could become the sacrificial lamb of a life not lived. False security in the fall of another. A fabulously romantic race to the bottom with none of the thrills or exhilaration of the worthwhile.

He was the spit of his mother. He was the double of his father. And he’d done nothing about that. His childhood was a mish-mash of adequacies. He could not complain at the overall level of service. Truth was he never bothered with a review. Slapped down three stars and told himself he had nothing to compare it with and so he didn’t bother saying a word about the experience that had begun to shape him into what he now was.

Not bothering was a lesson he learned well through childhood. To make himself small and inconspicuous so that he caused no bother. To hide himself in plain sight and paint on a smile so that everything could seem normal. If only for a while.

No childhood was ideal. Not when considered against the backdrop of the jaundiced and predatory future that awaited. Adulthood was a grim assault course that no one ever completed. No one was getting out alive. Few ever dared to live in the meantime. Staying small and hidden. Hoping they’d get away with it. Never defining what was meant by it. Never defining themselves in the hope that they could live up to the low expectations they’d been lumbered with from the very start.

Bullies. They were all bullies. Himself included. People thought themselves better than animals whilst hurting themselves on a treadmill of their own design. They were not fit owners of themselves and should never be allowed to dwell in polite society. Rabid dogs with no house training. Shitting on all that was good and rolling in the mess in an abject act of concealment.

He drank more of the fire and inhaled sweet fumes. His smile was one of contentment. Acceptance of his lot. The stars never blinked. Tonight they interrogated him and for once he answered their questions truthfully.

There was a statistic that was a clever lie. Of those abused only a third would go on to abuse. The trick was to see through the trick. To grab the obvious by the lapels and demand that it make itself known and in doing so see that it was another part of the self. One of the shattered fragments that required scooping up and putting back in place. Making it stick was another matter to be attended to in due course.

Then there were the absences. Voids where there should be meaning and action and decent intent. So much of the world they had all made together was a patchwork of nothingness. Nature abhorred a vacuum and as a consequence she filled it with punishments to fit the crimes of ignorance.

He found that he was looking up at the night sky now and out into the infinite. The place between the stars that spoke to him in a way that he understood. In a way that the stars never could.

Everyone experienced abuse. They chose not to see it that way. Aiding and abetting it in making it go away. But it never went away. Absence was abuse. Neglect was so readily inflicted upon others. Failing to be there for others was natural to those who constantly failed to be there for themselves.

Now he looked down upon a planet of dark objects. The shadow of the stars he stood amongst. Beings of light who had chosen to smother their flame in favour of a darkness in which they thought they could hide. But he saw it all from this place of detachment that had become true attachment for him. There were still shines and with the light of those shines there was hope. The cynic in him thought all he was seeing were the young. Those who had yet to have their self-worth beaten and strangled out of them. But as he gazed upon the world he knew there were those who had woken up to how they should be and shrugged off the lies that made them feel unworthy. In a sense, they were all young. Carrying with them a naivety that those around them scoffed at to disguise their envy and fear.

Even those who shunned their own light and the light of others could not fully extinguish their true selves. As his eyes acclimatised to the world, he saw more and more of the stars that shone despite the worst efforts of their temporary owners. He saw and a new hope grew within him.

Finishing the last of his drink he took an exploratory drag on what was left of his cigar, but it had given up the ghost long before now. He shivered, suddenly cold as he turned towards the dark and baleful eye of the back door to the cottage. All good things must come to an end, he thought to himself. Prompted by the dead cigar and the glass that contained nothing more than the memory of what was once good.

As he stood, he wondered at those good things that never began. Twisted endeavours that came to nought as the participants hit the ground eagerly and ran in entirely the wrong direction. Chasing the mirage of a carrot. Believing in the pot of gold at the end of rainbow, but never thinking through what happens at that journey’s end. What will be done with the promised riches?

Where is it all going?

He pauses and fancies he can feel the motion of the world beneath his cold feet. Moving at a thousand miles an hour and yet he’s going nowhere. He’s hesitating to cover the few yards to go inside. There’s an urge to jump and see how far the ground beneath him will travel as he experiences an impossible lightness. A freedom from invisible laws that have held him in place for far too long.

Sighing out the unborn breath of what could be, he trudges indoors. There is a single dim light by which he navigates the downstairs territory. In the bathroom he pulls the light on and cleans his teeth. The mirror stares at him throughout. He’s perfected an ability to see without seeing. He has become wallpaper in his own life. There is more to be seen and felt in the retreating waters in the toilet pan. Wishing himself away on the tides of waste that he feels an affinity with.

At the bottom of the stairs he realises he has not turned the lamp off. He feels its presence behind him and is torn as to whether he should go to it. Questions his need to leave it on. He is in the habit of sleeping in the dark, but this is not evidence that he ever overcame his fear of the darkness that surrounds him. A dark that consumes.

The comforting tendrils of the lamp dissipate as the stairs rise and turn left. He misses that touch as he heads into the bedroom. There is a warmth here, but it comes at a cost. Lifting the duvet carefully he is gentle as he enters the space. He lays there and adjusts to the atmosphere. Establishing whether it is safe to breath. Whether she is feigning slumber.

There was a time when they would synchronise their lives sufficiently to present an illusion of a shared existence. Bed time was an opportunity to be together. Now they dance this silent ballet of ignoring. They wear armour of belligerence. A shield of wariness. Often, he has been on the sharp end of her sword of blame.

As he lays still and wishes this state of affairs away. So near and yet so far apart. Two stars separated by the infinite. He thinks of that blame sword of hers. Sees it anew. Her hand bleeding as she clasps the blade. It is the hilt of the sword that is pointing at him. This is a conundrum that puzzles and hurts him. Can he take that sword by the hilt? And if he does will he hurt her all the more? Surely to pull the sword away from her will cut her all the more deeply.

Then there is his own sword. He is lost in the imagery of this gladiatorial moment. Looks down at the blade that is embedded in his guts. His eyes travel along the sharp edge to the empty handle. He’d expected her hand on the hilt. Understands now how much he has blamed her for his own pain. She the current scapegoat for the throng who have wronged him.

This is the war that he has become. The war he was trained to wage from an early age. He is a listless warrior with no foe worthy of him. An unthinking soldier following out orders long out of date. A lion commanded by the shadow of a dream that has become a living nightmare.

All he has to do is lay down his sword and shrug off the weight of shield and armour. But he is afraid. He is terrified of his true nature. Vulnerability is a weakness that will be the death of him. This the flavour of his lack of worth. He has invested himself in the fight. Convinced himself that in that struggle there is strength, when all there is, is the continuation of a hurt that deafens and blinds. A betrayal of life itself.

He told her that he loved her and he thought he meant it. And yet he wields a sword of self-destruction whenever he is with her. They are locked in an embrace that is killing them both. Emulating their elders. Copying everyone around them in the mistaken belief they will belong. A farcical drama. Performative validation. Constant movement to hide the lack of progress.

The sword cannot stay where it is. He knows this will hurt. But he needs to try. He needs to know. His grip tightens and the blade bites deeper. There is no relief in the small increment of withdrawal. The pain is an addiction and banishing the sword will take time.

He smiles in the dark. Smiles despite himself. Grins at the light at the end of the tunnel. The light that is already streaming through his wound. He has dared to shine and in doing so he knows this is the right thing to do. After all, what else is there?

Relinquishing his grip on false idols he now holds onto a singular hope and that hope is his light. What will be will be. Just as long as he is at last true to himself. This is something he can love. And if he can love this. If he can learn to love himself. Then he will love her.

He quietly turns towards her and slips his arm around her. Holding her. Wanting to create a safe place for her in order for her to be. Wanting that. Understanding what his place is in this bed. Seeing his place in the world.

This is contentment, he thinks to himself. A thought rises unbidden, no, this is peace. He tries this on for size and creates of it a compromise. It is both. In his unexpected happiness he thinks he will not sleep. This is of no concern to him. He is enjoying the moment. He is enjoying being with her in a way that he always should have. Ignorant of the importance of the moment, sleep claims him swiftly and he slumbers with a knowing smile upon his face.