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"We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown."
– T. S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
The world only will ever see me as I wish for it to.
It hides me from existence, this spectre of a visage that covers my face. A mask. One that looks indifferently happy. Content, with hopeful restraint. A bright, cheery smile. One that can light up the world, and without rein, reduce it to cinders. Other people see it. They smile. At it. In return to it. Driven by it. None notice the threads of hate drawn from it, nor the aftermath of the scars it leaves behind.
I can only alter what I look like, not who I am. People come near me. They see the smile etched upon my faux countenance. They ask me why I do not speak to anyone. Mutely, I can but bob my head in comprehensive assent. They only come near. They never are close enough. It is a silent scream for help, my existence, in a language that only hearts know of.
At times, I wish I would matter. Just a little, now and then. I'm not stupid, I know that someone as me can never matter, especially all the while. It did and does entail existential impossibility. I ask people if I do. They nod. They say yes. They say I make a difference, that I am loved. They shake their heads. They say no. They say I remain far too insipid, stupid and weird to be loved. And I cannot help but wonder - Is it me that is loved or loathed, or is it my helplessly hapless visage? Is it the idea of me which I let them see that they choose, or is it me, as I am, a crooked soul?
And I know the answer before I ask the question.
And it always remains the same.
And they walk away.
I am tempted to call out to them, to the world, to hope that I just might matter to someone, unlike the others who cast me aside, and to lift up my mask and show them. What I am, beyond a mass of flesh and bone. But I know there is no point. There never was. I will be but walked away from.
A soul, alone.
People never see within. They look at me, at my words, at my books, at my music, at my eccentricities, and they laugh. I know not if they bless me or curse me. I know not of the light whispers, for it is the truth alone that always hides in the dark. They look at me, alone, and they turn from me.
And I cannot blame them, can I? Though I look alive, I remain barely upon the brink of consciousness, a stub of a candle flickering next to me as its wax melts down and away. The tempestuous hatred flows around and about me. The eternal flame flickers, buffeted by the currents. But it comes back. To light. To love, to hope. It is all that I can see by. For with it, death is life, and snuffed out of its existence, life is death. I smile, not because I wish to, but so that none ask me of why I do not. I do not hope for them to understand, for the human soul will forever supersede the threads of imagination that consciousness can perhaps hope to fathom. The threads. The threads tug at my ears, threatening to break. I push on the mask more firmly, so that they do not. A replacement requires hate, more of it, and I doubt my little candle can take anymore, furthermore.
They laugh. They smile. They cry. They weep. They laugh again. They love. They make love. They exist. They senesce. They infinitise into the unknown. They cry, again. None know what it is, to live. To breathe like your life depends on it. To touch. To feel. To know, and to love. To know, and to yet love. To feel your throat constrict as your heart threatens to expose itself unto the world when someone asks if you are okay, for you know not what to do of your mask. To speak of silence, in silence. To yell at the peak of your voice, and yet, not make a sound. For it isn't heard. Not until looked for. And once found, it haunts even death, through who's eyes alone can the truth be glimpsed.
They do not understand when I tell them I know naught of my existence, that I know not of what I do, or why I love as I do. They do not know what it is to have life slap you in the face so hard that your lip bleeds, simply because you chose to say "hello." They do not know how it feels to be kicked when you say you love it in spite of that.
I have no answers for them in the languages of words.
They, I believe, will never know. For I remain the horror veiled by hope, the fallen angel. I cry out to the heavens, an apology unto all that I was, and all that I wasn't. I tear out my wings, in desperational, hateful, delusional hope, as my sinews are ripped apart and ichor runs in streams down my back. I cry out once again, tears streaming down my face, as my chest tries to stop my breathing, forever.
None answer.
I turn, leaving hope and my wings behind. I stumble. I fall. There are none to lift me. I weep alone in a language known alone by souls as mine. I smite the Earth until my bones crack, and my knuckles bleed as rivers, and I have only my tears for comfort.
I remain, a living corpse. A stranger amongst crowds. I may not be a person, but I hope I have what it takes to be Human. I reach out to people. I hope that they see me, for me, as I truly am. I hope that they answer. That they stay. That they not leave me in the dark. They look at me. They turn away from me. They pretend I do not exist. Some spit at me in disgust, for which I remain thankful. Indifference slices at the heart much more harshly than hate does.
And so, I put on the mask. I pull on hate. And I walk away. They do not know, I tell myself, a pathetic attempt at consolation. They did not try to. And now, they will never know.
And then, I see you. A universe amidst the rest of the universe. I see you, a gentle Polaris. I try. I hope. One last time.
You draw closer. You hold me near, and ask me of but one thing. Not who I am, not where I come from. You ask, "Where does it hurt?"
And I believe. I trust again. I pull off my mask, and the threads snap. You're surprised to see it, see them. The scars. I bare myself, gritting my teeth hard, for the shame I would know. Soon enough. I pray, I pray for it to be over. Over, just as life ends.
But it never comes.
I look up, into your eyes, which speak the language I alone understand. Eyes that told me, in surprise, that they didn't understand how one can know so much pain, and yet, love so much.
And then, I cry. For the first time, in all of my life, I cry like a child. I weep in your arms, for I never had known kindness in an infinity as you showed me in a moment. I did not know how to find it. You do not let go. You do not look, you see. You listen. You hold me tight and close, and whisper in my ears. Of light. Of truth. Of love. In the language I alone know. Knew. You make me feel like my troubled heart is worth loving. You tell me I am art, a presence full of light upon this Earth. That I, matter. To you, if not to the rest of time.
Matter. To matter.
I see you. I see your scars. The cracks existence chose to wreak upon you and leave behind even though life herself didn't stay. And amidst the cracks, I see light.
Sparks.
You run your fingers over the remains, the stubs that my wings once were. You feel them, and the pain below the obscurant hate, and below them all, the urge to love again. You do not ask. You put your hand upon my cheek, and trace the scars on my face, down to my soul. You love me beyond words, words that tell me that you would never leave me alone in the dark, not now, not ever.
You give me peace, something I'd never dreamt of knowing, not in aeons.
And for once, I dare ask why.
You gently pull me closer, and you weave your fingers and your soul through my own. You close your eyes, and you kiss me. Softly. Telling me I am something that you will hold dear for a lifetime as your throat poured into mine. And you stay. Even when it is time to go. And after.
And you say, "Now, you know."
Amidst the tears, I smile. Not a beautiful smile. Not a cheery smile. A crooked smile, one as my soul. One, of hope. One, of a perhaps. One, of love.
And the candle burns brighter tonight than it ever has before.