[Chapter 5] Revelation.

She’s lying right next to me.

Another one. Another lonely girl, another lonely night. A night fueled by absent lies, bitter drinks, and impermissible moral principles.

How many is that now? Such a conjecture is not one I dare to cloud my disarrayed mind.

I can’t take it. Hypocrisy thy name truly is thyself. But dare I risk sounding cliché?

Such is too late.

I preach. I preach to my socially ascending siblings. I preach to my depraved friends. I even risk preaching to those who truly know me best. Those of which who have stood by me since the beginning. Those who have never questioned my motives, but merely given me insight toward an outside perspective.

I preach to you.

My readers are all that I have, and what is it that I have given you in return? I certainly have not made you more intelligent. I haven’t given you anything you can sell for profit. All that I have given you is a metaphor for a life that is beyond control. One withstanding conformity and humility.

Far be it for me to practice that of which I preach on a daily basis.

Not I. Not the one seeking sexual annexation, nor the one wiping each tear away as his best friend kisses his girlfriend goodnight.

It couldn’t be… me.

I roll my cheek onto her forehead. She’s staring at me.

She stares at me as the other breathes deeply into my chest. Her eyes gaze gently down upon me; she is mocking me. Her glazen blue eyes, soft mysterious lips, and her Gibson acoustic guitar bolstered on her nurturing bosom. She is everything I want, and nothing I can have.

Colbie Caillat is a metaphor for the life that I want and the woman I’d give anything for. She once said that her song, Bubbly, wasn’t written about her crush but rather her dream guy. She is my dream, and I keep waking up.

“Why do you do that?” whispered a voice, emanating from what seemed to be right within my own ear.

“Do what?” I asked, jarring out of my daze.

“Why do you detach yourself? You detach yourself from these girls who have deeply fallen for you, from your friends who would do anything for you. Trey, I’ve seen you detach yourself from your own family.”

I didn’t know how to answer that.

I’ve been asked this before, but only through Internet commentary. Never have I had these words directed toward me in such an abrasive manner. Surely this is just playful banter.

“I… I don’t know” were the only three words I could stutter.

She sighed, adjusting her head onto my chest as she closed her eyes. I could feel the warmth of her exhale running serenely down my ribs, diffusing itself across my stomach, as if a slow stream wallowing down a hillside into a mellow pond.

It’s true.

My eyes are transfixed to the sharp ridges of the ceiling above me.

What am I hiding from? Why is it that every time someone tries to get close to me, I unceremoniously show them the proverbial door? I’m certainly not afraid of being hurt. I’ve been there and back ten times over. My heart may be callused, but far from the cause.

What’s the differential diagnosis? Quick.

Perhaps you’re afraid of letting such a catch down. Disappointment can be a real deal breaker these days. But no, that’s not it at all, is it Trey? You’ve known all along, you just couldn’t admit it.

No, no it’s not. You’re afraid that she’ll let you down. You’re afraid that she will disappoint you. She’ll take every single thing that the two of you worked so hard to build, the trust, the compassion, the love, and she’ll make one tiny mistake and it will all be gone.

You’ll crush her, but you don’t care. You won’t give a shit, all because you’re safe now. You’ve got yourself, you’ve got your words, and you’ve got your future. You have your future. There will be no our, there will be no we, it will just be you.

You stupid, narcissistic, son of a bitch.

“You have to go.”

“What?” she asked wearily.

“I’m sorry. You have to go.”

















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Trey -AKA- The Mad Wordsmith

[Chapter 4] Envy.

Perspective construes reality. It is an inevitable force that is unable to be faltered. Each passing moment of each passing day of each passing year, each changes the course of my future, the course of your future, and the course of our future as we adjust to accommodate to its obstinate errand. It has the propensity to force us all to qualify our life decisions at will.

.:.

Here I am.

Here I am, I’m leaning. I’m leaning over the same old counter, in the same old house, unable to stand upon my same old feet.

I’m staring absently into this cracked old mirror. I wonder how this mirror came to be cracked. I’m sure it did nothing to deserve such a morbid penance. Some asshole like me indubitably threw his fist in a fit of rage as he helplessly watched his reflection mock him from the other side. Mocking him for being such a failure. Mocking him for his loneliness.

The grass really must be greener.

My hands hurt. My palms on both of my hands hurt. The sharp edge of this cheap plastic laminate digs deep into my skin, but in a way it feels good. It feels good to feel. After all, emptiness succumbs to pain.

This has all become so visceral.

Two days ago my best friend of my distant youth had a baby. He had a beautiful baby girl. He had a beautiful baby girl with a beautiful Mrs. Best-Friend-to-be.

He’s always held it together.
He’s always kept his cool.
He’s always been the man that I’ve longed to be.

Lover at 22. Father at 23.

I don’t want a child. In fact I’d be willing to endorse Trojan right here in my own little blogging world, as long as they threw me some advertising dollars; or some free condoms.

I’m not fit to be a father. At 23 I’m not fit to take care of anyone. At 23, I’m not fit to take care of myself.

I don’t want a baby. I’m still not sure if I want to deal with the encumbrance of a romantic relationship.

I’m lonely. I’m lonely and my best friend just had a baby.

It’d be easier for me to host a conference on chaos theory for a group of physicists than it would be to wrap my head around fathering another human life.

I don’t know how he does it. I don’t know how he stays so calm. I don’t know how his demeanor is so confident and his swagger so cool.

Everyone loves him. I wish everyone loved me. I wish someone loved me.

.:.

My perspective changes every day. My perspective on life changes every day. My perspective on love, it changes every day. My perspective of my body, my perspective of my body changes. I am a self-loathing narcissist. I can look at myself in the mirror and wish that my abs were harder, my penis was bigger, and my face, well I can wish that my face wasn’t my own. I can also look in the mirror and think I’m the sexiest man alive. I can change my hair, throw on some new clothes and I can think, I can know, that a new piece of ass will be waiting for me at the door.

My perspective changes.

I love blogging. I love microblogging. I love social media. I love social media because of its boundless efficacy.

@Carolyn helped change my perspective. As quoted in the comment section of [Chapter 3] Muse from Objectivity is Dead:

“So, T, what is it that you're looking for that you are so firmly convinced you will never find? Methinks you may be a ‘petrarchan lover’…

…Or, is it merely that your standards are so unjust that no human could ever fill this void you lug around?

Perhaps a bit of both?

Don't take yourself (or life) so seriously…”

It’s like taking punches and not being able to say stop. All I need to do is say stop and the pain goes away. All I need to do is say stop. I can’t say stop. Does this feel good? Does it feel good to feel?

Oh my God. I am a masochist.

My standards are smothering me. My back aches from lugging this burden around. No one will ever be good enough for you. I’ll never have a chance with her. Don’t let yourself get close to her. I can’t hurt her again.

It’s the chase. I’ve figured it out! It’s the chase that I love. My mind is a paradox. I don’t want to be lonely, but I know once I break down her wall of subconscious I won’t want a fucking thing to do with her. It’s a dangerous game I play. I can’t have what I don’t want, and I don’t want what I can’t have.

I’m fucked in the head. Don’t try to convince me otherwise. Either we’re all fucked, or I’m the only one. There is no happy medium. There is no common ground. There is no shade of grey.

.:.

Here I am.
I’m staring at the same old mirror.
This mirror is cracked, and his hands are bleeding.

It hurts.

“There is no life without love, none worth having anyway.” -Hank Moody, Californication

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Trey -AKA- The Mad Wordsmith

[Chapter 3] Muse.

Regret, albeit an undesirable manifestation of one’s darkest hour, is an inherent state of despondency that we perpetually tempt through misguided judgment. By no fault but of our own do we continually seek to fulfill the immediate self-gratifications resulting from our repeatedly mistaken decisions, only to leave but a bitter taste of penitence in our mouths.

.:.

There she stood, her beauty emanating from every pore on the surface of her delicate body.

Sarah, who in spirit of the Halloween gaieties, had opened the door upon my arrival with an air of embellishment. She was garmented from top to bottom in the night’s darkest clothing, leaving little to be imagined.

Her lustrous black stilettos reflected the light from the full Hallow’s moon as her voluptuous legs made way to a tattered frock that nestled the curvature of her body ever so perfectly. Her exquisite complexion was tainted only in the slightest by three perfectly beaded droplets of blood, which were resting serenely atop the apex of her chin.

As I stood upon the stoop of her home with an awestruck gaze, it suddenly dawned upon me that the doorway by which we were separated was effectively serving as a metaphor for our storybook affair.

“Hi Trey,” she said with an elegant smile, just as my agape jaw began to twinge.

The amiable tone of her voice shocked me, as I had expected her diction to match that of her assumed persona; a Vampiress she had become indeed.

As my internal monologue proceeded to bate the resilient feelings, she spoke only to end what I assume to have become an exceedingly uncomfortable silence.

“Are you ready to go?” she asked.

“Yeah, let me put the rest of my beer in your fridge and we’ll take off,” I said, shaking out of my latent state of mind.

Having become aware of my invitation to the forthcoming party only this afternoon, I had been given very little time to creatively prepare a costume; as my original plans for this evening merely consisted of drinking myself into a coma. Alone.

As I drove to the costume shop, feebly hoping that inventory still remained on the shelves, I was blessed with a rare moment of inspiration.

Clicking through the presets on my stereo, I momentarily settled upon a local indie station that was currently playing “You’re So Last Summer” by Taking Back Sunday.

Having had the misfortune of discovering the band at a concert several years prior, I have ever since abhorred their name and the culture to which they contribute; the emo culture.

And so at that moment, I begrudgingly decided to transform myself into that of which has become the bane of my existence. All that I needed to successfully fashion the character was a long black wig, an assortment of makeup, and some gauze to cover the blatant scars riddled across both of my arms.

As Sarah and I began walking down the street toward the house of our destination, I started to realize to what degree my contempt for the college community had risen. With each intoxicated outcry emanating from the passing houses, my enthusiasm for the night’s events faded ever so slightly.

Stepping into what I suddenly realized to be a house of the fraternal community, I was immediately consumed by regret.

As I moved through the doorway and into the foyer I was approached by what appeared to be a gentleman dressed solely in a pink woman’s thong. I make mention to the fact that he appeared to be a man because, while my avidity to glance down was clearly nonexistent, I couldn’t help but to notice the banana in the hammock was in its very early stages of ripening.

“Hey bro, you can’t be here if you ain’t with nobody,” the mook intelligently snarled.

“It’s okay Lance, he’s with me,” Sarah gestured as we walked past him, making an extra effort not to make contact with his impressively well-developed love handles.

“I see you’ve made some… Good friends,” I said audaciously, just as she turned to burn a hole through my skull with her austere stare.

“I see you’ve learned to not judge everyone you meet,” she snapped. Her tone was dry and I could sense she was starting to second guess her decision to invite me. I decided to back off a bit and try to enjoy myself to the best of my ability.

“Here’s to a great night,” I said, looking at her with a half-assed grin on my face and a beer raised to eye-level.

Before she was able to decide if my previous statement was genuine, the beat to “Lollipop” by Lil’ Wayne kicked in and everyone in the closet-sized room began moving simultaneously.

Almost immediately, what appeared to be an oversized hairdryer walked up behind Sarah and put his hands on her hips to start dancing with her. Before I could take a step forward, she looked at me with a glare that said: “I’m fine, go dance.”

As I stood in the corner, true to my emo nature, and watched her dance with what I later found out to be a giant keg, I began to realize that the inebriation had started its onset.

Cue impaired judgment.

Cracking open another beer, I watched Mr. Kegman’s hands slowly make their way down Sarah’s slender waist, well past the ridge of her hips for the second time in the past 10 minutes.

This time however, she grabbed his hands, threw them askew and began to walk away. Just as he reached for her shoulder to pull her back, I found myself sprinting at him without the slightest amount of consideration.

I don’t think I’ve ever been in a fight, at least not a notable one. At best, I remember punching my classmate in the stomach in the sixth grade for slamming my locker shut.

The adrenaline that pumps through your veins just before making contact with your aggressor is, well, orgasmic at the least. The room was at a standstill as I took a third person’s point of view, watching the events play out from above. It felt as if my enduring dream to live my life through a camera was happening right in front of my eyes.

Watching my fist make its way across the keg’s upper left jaw, the room spun back into motion as I dropped quickly back down into my body.

Mr. Kegman was lying on the floor in front of me while onlookers from all angles stood perplexedly.

Before I could interpret what had happened, I felt a firm pull on the back of my hoodie and realized that I was being dragged quickly out of the house; I assumed that payback was about to ensue.

As I turned around, half-expecting to see Lance in his barren state with his fist cocked back and ready to swing, my eyes were graciously surprised.

Sarah, having a surprisingly stronger upper body than I remembered, had pulled me out of the house just before I was able to learn the true meaning of getting one’s own ass handed to him.

Before I could apologize, in hope that Sarah wouldn’t give me a lesson in ass-handling herself, I felt her soft luscious lips embrace my own.

What happened next was far be it from what I had envisioned to be in tonight’s docket.

.:.

Lying naked on my back in Sarah’s uncomfortably small twin bed, her resting head nestled between my shoulder and chin, I couldn’t help but to stare at the ceiling and ponder how lonely I truly was.

Sex had begun to fall short of its gratifying reputation. Pleasureful value aside, the worth of one night encounters regardless of past feelings had all but vanished.

Unable to move my eyes from the slow spinning ceiling fan, my mind began to long for the one soul in this world that it knew it could find solace in. The one entity, the one human being, the one female that without a question I knew I could love and be loved without the inherent complications of sexual arousal.

She is my muse, and I will forever be in longing.

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Trey -AKA- The Mad Wordsmith