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Humans are in an endless for meaning; some content having the lack thereof, upon which, in contradiction, is also a qualitative definition in itself. The irony had predominantly governed the metaphysics of humankind the moment it regained its spatial awareness. Instinct, guided by intensity, consistently lead the lives of these fragile entities, that even when challenged by profound emotions of inflicting wounds upon oneself, despite the already jarring litters of scars upon the surface of complexion, the last particle of hope flickers like a beam through the leakage of an attempt to lacerate through and take everything—the good and the bad—away.
Humans are sentient beings. They conceal their purest selves behind the many mirrors donning a myriad facades. The entrance to the soul is a long-lasting yet a shallow, surface-level impression. It is merely one of the many wormholes into an internal, integrated system of character that shows itself only when necessary. Every frame of countenance differs from a lover to an enemy, to a stranger and to whom he once knew. All these existing fragments of consciousness share one collective perceptions of meaning. What of himself, then? What had become of his reason to become? To whom do his fronts will itself to succumb and lay oneself abare? Naught but a fleeting soul—cosmic stardust—past the flesh and beyond the marrows where matter and mass ceases to exist.
The fluttering of golden irises invites herself into his view, and he felt the pad of a thumb pressing itself against his lips. The bumps on the surface indicated the drought, neglect caused by the preoccupation of the wandering mind.
“In a daze again, are we? A penny for your thoughts?” He would give it to her for free, but it is far too dark a place for a beloved to loiter in her own volition.
“Nothing of utter importance. It might bore you, and the curiosity of your feline gaze might eventually find the topic a tad dispiriting,” I spoke, averting her gaze. Welt knew for a fact that if he allowed his eyes to linger in hers, it can and would convince him enough to speak of the troubles of mankind, at least one that birthed a thousand perceptions and a million answers, yet holds no universal, absolute truth.
But one thing is certain.
She is Reason. The offspring of Cerces and Mnestia. Rationality and irrationality. That itch in the hivemind that teases and derails his logical frameworks. The fragance of asphyxiation permeating the air that he breathes. The dimension he traversed out of his own volition, in pursuance of protecting the world she now inhabits as a liberated soul; efface the guilt and dissolve it away, allow her counterpart a prolonged life and satisfy the apparition that unrelentingly haunts my reveries. In dreams and nightmares she is there; the bearer of all that he has and the embodiment of his darkest fear. A being he could not bear to lose the second time.
“You always keep them to yourself, no matter my attempts of prying them open.” Welt felt her tugging at his chin, turning his vision into her view which made him swallow the lump in my throat, a behavior that turned into habit to silence himself as a form of restraint. This was not a part of the future Welt had envisioned the moment he first stepped foot in the Astral Express. It was not a part of the plan to learn how to embrace the pungent bitterness of coffee on her rancorous brew, and learn that it can only be done so when the cup is her lips. To try it once was morbid enough to take from the cup, but to hear her laugh from his show of distaste, in a manner he had not heard much from the version of her back in his own world feels like had served this universe well.
But to fall, and continuously so with reckless abandon in her hands, when did this happen? All the more he deems himself unworthy to be dressed in her loving gaze like this. The way she looks at the stars in his eyes, locked behind being recollections of a gruesome past. Welt could not bear it in me to hold her, even when his desires scream at the top of the lungs, even when the heart years to proclaim what had been neglected in countless journeys with her. Not knowing what she and himself are stretches far better than labelling what they have—this stagnant affection mutually shared. Constantly on a rise, to the point of no return.
She should not, and would not know of these harbored, romantic pursuits. Nor will he commit to these acts even when the enormity of my hunger claws on the walls of my flesh.
The journey of a Nameless comes with people who come and people who would go. When the time finally arrives, how could he stop himself from staying somewhere he never belonged? And is she able to let go of someone who had become a crucial, integral part of herself? What would come into fruition would only be grief if this continues to persist. But man—man had always been the greedy, selfish sort that wishes to consume anything and everything in its path. Despite the particulars of his person, he was formed in the same, biological methods as them. Forever entangled into the genetic data consisting of humankind.
“Were you not the one who spoke of silence as something you didn't mind, Himeko?” A giggle resonates from her chest.
“It's different when it's you.” Doomed by the narrative. “I want to understand you to the core.” He should depart— “Down to the marrow.” A whisper in the ear that elicited a shudder and a shaky sigh.
He burrowed his face into the crook of her neck, took her weight into his arms—finally—able to breathe again, able to indulge in her scent.
The silence remained loud and defeaning, but I surmise she already knew what he was thinking of before she even asked. He will tell her of it sometime, when he could bear it no longer. When his shoulder had given up from the weight of it all. He still have plenty of space left for more to carry.
“I will, in due time.”