I probably should hate her. But I suppose I'm damned if I do, damned if I don't. Besides, I don't think that emotion is possible when someone's relating their feelings towards her. After all, she' . There's something in her laughter, in her dark eyes, that betrays the fact that there is a pure, brilliant, knowledgeable soul bursting from her very frame to lighten the air with her wonderful spirit. She has this soothing aura around her that will calm the tempest in my heart for a few moments of peace. Then the dark, longing thoughts will sidle back to the forefront of my mind again, and I will find myself close to tears at the fact that I am so very close to the one I love the most on Earth, and yet she'll never know it because I am a coward.
It was William Shakespeare who wrote, "Love is blind, and lovers cannot see." I'll admit to my blindness. She's not beautiful to the world's gaze, and yet she's the most pleasing being in the entire universe to my eyes. After all, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Listen to me, spouting off well-known quotes. I suppose the reason I use these quotes is because I have no words of my own to speak about my beloved; I have no words because she's stunned me speechless. My normally articulate tongue is leaden in my mouth when I attempt to speak of my love for her while I'm alone in my bedroom, and even now my usually expressive fingers tremble and falter at the keyboard. I cannot describe her, and I can barely describe the emotions she stirs within me.
She is brightness. If I keep repeating those three words, it is because they are the best words to describe her. She is a miraculous faerie, an angel in the midst of my teenage angst and torment. And yet.. And yet I cannot help but call her my tainted guardian angel, for as much as she inspires wonder, she inspires anguish at the same time. She is brightness in soul, but her words have inveigled into me a despair that I could die from. She has stolen away my foundation, the rock upon which I stand for; she has stolen away my religion. Piece by piece her calm, sensible words of her agnostic ways have chipped away at the once unmovable stone until it is a mere shadow of its former self, now being worn away by my own unanswerable questions.
At night, I will grasp at those fragile stones, the pebbles falling through my fingers or slicing through fragile flesh. My mental mind is like those imaginary fingers, bleeding lifeblood from vital veins to splash against a self-conceived, cerebral book that I once wrote all of my convictions in. The pure white paper lies unwritten upon now, save a few random scribbles of frantic words to reassure my soul with. The former stone is now merely pebbles, waiting to be washed away by more of her damning, gentle words that my hearts yearns for and yet grieves for.
She'll never know how much I love her. I'll make certain of that. She'll never discover I write these words, she'll never experience the feel of my longing lips against hers. That's the way it must be if I'm to keep this friendship alive. She likes men.. I know this. She'll always like men. There's no way she'll ever want another woman, especially not me. So I can attempt to be content with her friendship, and only weep at night into my jersey pillow, letting the tears flow like blood from a wound onto the dark blue texture. Love is blind, and lovers cannot see. I do wish Mr. Shakespeare had been more detailed about exactly what these lovers cannot see, because I can see all too well. I can see reason and I can see my own damnation. I can see the future, a future that will involve her getting married and having child and me, their dear 'aunt' who smiles and gives them presents but never gets married herself or has children and instead merely writes.
I probably should hate her. But I suppose I'm damned if I do, damned if I don't. Either way, my faith is shattered into a million pieces, blown by winds of despair and spite, and I don't think it'll ever be pieced back together. I'm just another Humpty Dumpty, another lost soul in a world of grief. Maybe, just maybe when it comes for me to leave this world, when I'm old and decrepit, I'll write a letter explaining my feelings for her and leave it for her in my will. Maybe. And if she should die before me? Well, I won't think about that. No, I refuse to think of a life without my damning angel. I will not contemplate what I'll do if that ill-fated, heart- shattering day should ever come.
So she's my damning angel, my damnation and my savior. She is my brightness that will lift me into bliss and then send me tumbling into hopeless sorrow. She is the light to my darkness, and the darkness to my light. She is a non sequitur individual, but she is my enigma, and I love her. Sometimes.. Oh, sometimes..
Sometimes I wish I didn't..
(To be continued.)