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The Cliché-Killer

Clichés come into existence through certain ideas or concepts being so prevalent, so omnipresent, so important, that they leave the realm of idea and become fact: too obvious to state. We are all acquainted with them. Instantly, we grasp meanings in seconds through phrases which may or may make sense semantically. Unfortunately, clichés are trite. They are platitudes. They say nothing new and smack of unoriginality. And for a writer who is concerned, on the one hand, with the big issues (life, death, time, meaning, etc.) and with originality/individuality on the other, these clichés become a barrier. They make it nearly impossible to access the issues I want to address without wading through the linguistic mud of the cliché. And I always end up looking dirty when I arrive, the now dried-mud all over me. This distracts me when I come to approach the issue from another angle – the unique position that is my own.

I’ve been wrangling with this issue for a long time – and not just myself, but all writers and almost certainly all people. It’s a conundrum, trying to find a way to talk about things without sounding as if you’re unoriginal, even if you do have interesting and unique things to say. Much like the ‘anxiety of influence’ that poets feel when they realise that the main issues have been described incredibly by the likes of Keats, Shakespeare and Byron, they wonder what they can possibly say. But it’s not that they don’t have things to say: it’s only that they want to release their shackles and tap into the poetic lifeblood that is coursing through their veins – but trying to avoid all the usual phrases and sayings.

It’s for that reason that I stopped writing poetry for a very long time. 

But now I have managing to bypass this anxiety by ignoring this conscious filter, this anxiety, and allowing the blood to flow straight from my veins onto the page: there is a point at which the things one has to say becomes more important than any reception of them. If I have something to say, I utterly have to say it. It no longer matters to me whether Shakespeare has said something similar, or said it better. I simply have to say it. If that means writing without verse, without rhyme, or even clumsily at times, then so be it.

Passion is more important to me now than technical mastery. I allow what technical skills and intuitive writing ability I have to shape those things that literally burst from me. If I keep them in, I quite literally lose my mind and become a very, very strange bundle of emotion that loses all self-control. I become thoroughly disorientated. It strikes me that not everyone has the passion I have for what I do. And of all the attempts that have been made to describe what it is about me that is ‘different’, all have failed – myself included. Passion seems to be a very pertinent word, and so I’m going to use that as a benchmark. Whatever it is I do – and I’m aware of the irony involved in the fact that a writer can’t even come close to describing some of the most important facets of his character – I am passionate about it.

Through use of this handle, or key, as it were, I have been able to not only wrangle with the anxiety of influence – I have been able to pin it to the ground and finish it off. I have banished it from my life and I spend almost every night finding myself turning some music to the limits of volume, pulling out a pad and a pen and writing furiously until I find that some ten or more pages later, I have a poem in at least seven parts. And contrary to the past, I find that I have opened up more avenues for exploration for the future when I have finished, rather than feeling somewhat exhausted. I feel fulfilled in the same sense I always have done – proud – but I start the countdown until the next time I get to unleash all my thoughts and passion. Often this is about twenty seconds later, when I start writing another poem.

The key to all of this, of course, is because the cliché has been killed.

*

Rather, the fear of the cliché has been overcome.

And when one fear has been overcome, that usually signals that whoever has overcome the fear has gained a lot of strength – and a lot of other fears will be conquered either in tandem or in the near future. I can certainly attest to that.

‘Cliché killing’ isn’t simply an empty phrase (but god forbid it ever came a cliché in the future, I don’t think I could handle that irony), though nor is it a catchphrase. It’s simply my way of labelling this newest phase of my career (and life, thanks to the events of this year, especially a few vital successful conquests). It’s my way of reminding myself that my passion for poetry, for prose, for writing shouldn’t be reduced by my appreciation of the greats – it should be redoubled, and I should write without anxiety.

I know for a fact that Shakespeare (replace with any great writer) wasn’t worried about living up to some other standard when he was writing. He simply wrote because he had to – it would have been dangerous to his health not to.

And there is another barrier which is overcome when this passion is tapped into: you stop caring what people think.

I have always been of the mind-set that, if I am able to predict how people will react (which I do seem able to do, for whatever reason), then it is my fault if I choose to write something I know will offend people, even if I truly feel it. The number of times I have paused to write something inflammatory and then stopped myself for this very reason is almost unbelievable.

This is where, precisely, cliché-killing becomes more than words and becomes almost a poetic tattoo. It signals my complete disregard for what others think: critics or dissenters.

(‘Think’ here meaning opinion – a technical critique of whatever I say is always valuable, and someone who takes the time to explore the syntax, semantics of my writing — or otherwise linguistically explore what I have written — is more than entitled to critique my work. I’m referring, here, to those who take a shallow ‘I think that’s bad’ view. Unthinking types.)

Whilst there is a social function I still need to perform as ‘Luke Labern’, the writer Luke Labern has very defined and, perhaps, controversial views and as such, I need to distinguish between the two. So whilst I will continue to bite my tongue – like we all must – to keep my social character, or persona, going, when it comes to writing, this will no longer be the case.

To indicate this, I will be referring to my poetic alter-ego as something different. He is a person who does not care what other people thinks: because he lives in the realm of the mind; in words and in thought. No one and nothing can enter or penetrate his philosophical space. Criticism falls deafly on his ears. In reality, he is dis-engendered. All social etiquette is irrelevant to him: all that exists are the words he writes. The reader can converse with him in the privacy of their mind, and they can leave the text whenever they wish.

He will live longer than Luke Labern, because his words will remain long after the corpse of Luke Labern has been restored to its constituent parts and has decayed away into other things. The thoughts of this being, this writer, this poet, will last as long as there is another sentient being alive able to comprehend what has been said. I assume this is a finite time, but either way: he will have a far greater influence than Luke Labern ever will. And he is infinitely braver than him.

The person who wrote this is Luke Labern. The person who types the characters or spills ink on the page is Luke Labern – but the thoughts that are translated into writing are someone else’s. And this being has never had a name: for a long time I thought they were the same person. But now that Luke Labern has managed to emancipate his social function from his ideologies as a writer, the two have been dissociated. The writer of the words is Luke Labern. The poet who feels those things, who lives his life as a borderline martyr who is yet to be tested has a different name. So from my writing hence: whenever you see a new, higher layer of honesty, of intensity, of perceptiveness, know that this stems from a bravery that Luke Labern isn’t able to display for a variety of reasons (because of his human ties). Know that it comes from a rejection of anxiety; from a reject of fear, and from a rejection of intimidation of any kind. It arises solely by negating the influence of anyone else in the world but the poet himself.

The writer’s name – the translator’s name — is Luke Labern.

The poet’s name is the Cliché-Killer.

Impossible Is Nothing (story/philosophy)

What is the limit of dreaming?

At what point does a dream cease to motivate and morph into the walls of a transcendental prison cell? Does it fluctuate day to day? What things are we allowed to dream of – what’s ridiculous? How important is the word ‘impossible’? Should we ever accept it? Does it even exist?

The corollary of dreaming is doubt. Where hope falls flat, or short, doubt takes over. But like the constant movement of the tide up the shore, it will continue to eat away at that hope until there’s almost nothing left – if you let it. Only focus and determination can help you to float on those dangerous waves, until such a time as you can sink to the bottom and march out along the seabed towards whatever ‘impossible’ thing it is that you want.

And when does confidence become arrogance? If I say that I am going to achieve something that is deemed ludicrous (or ‘impossible’), I am either fantastically confident (I truly believe that I will achieve it) or I am arrogant (I believe I can do something which I cannot do). But, this then poses the problem: likelihood doesn’t matter here. What matters is success. I cannot be called either confident or arrogant until I have tried and succeeded, or tried and failed. (I cannot not try and pretend I really care about my dream – if I do this I am acting in bad faith and I am a weak and pointless man who has wasted existence.) But I can only be said to have failed when my life is over and there is literally then no chance that I can achieve my dream. So please, reserve all judgement until I am dead. I will not be able to hear you then – nor would I care even if I could – but that is exactly the point.

What matters, then, is how one apportions the importance of their dream to how they want to spend their life. In the end, what do you want? Or rather, how do you want to spend your life? We know what will happen at the end – nothing – so it is completely up to you how you spend the moments before that point. Whether your life lasts for another century, or only for another ten minutes, the choice is yours. Even a slave, even a prisoner, even a broken man’s thoughts are under his control. They are his thoughts and no one else’s. It is his existence.

I have heard a lot of people using the phrase ‘I want to…’; ‘I would love to…’; ‘It would be incredible to…’ or, best of all ‘imagine if…’ – but I do not often hear ‘I will’. But that is exactly the difference between those who do and those who do not. Why waste your faith in a higher power, in the hope that there is another life after this one, when you could place your faith in yourself, in this life – because this life is conquerable, utterly and completely – and achieve those dreams that inspire you, and will otherwise haunt you if left unfulfilled.

Why not, at least, try?

But literally, try – try as in, exchange the concept ‘living’ with ‘trying’. I do not mean ‘try’ as in, ‘I gave it a go’ – because as we have seen, you can only be said to have finished when you have died – and you cannot say anything then. Thus, trying is not merely an act but a way of life. Why would you stop? Rest, yes – but do not stop trying to attain what it is that you want. This needs no examples: it is a fact that those who try the hardest succeed the most often.

Of course, whilst all of this is true – and I believe it with every fibre of my being – that does not mean that the resources are always available for us to achieve all that we want. At least, not all the time. There are undoubtedly times in which we must endure the brutality of failure and even live with our hate. I am yet to meet a person who has not, at one time, despised themselves. For all the people who hate humanity, they almost always hate themselves too – the human condition gives way to atrocities, errors and embarrassment. And do not believe for even a second that the most successful people – the dreamers who achieve – don’t undergo this too. Far from a ‘celebrity’ being super-human or in any way different from the rest of their species, it is precisely because they are human that they succeed. Whilst some catapult to the top simply with money, those who are self-made understand human nature and its weaknesses. And just like with any structure, idea or goal, the best way to strengthen something is to identify its weakness and turn it into strength.

This is the difference between dreamers and idealists, or, roughly, successes and failures: dreamers dream, and the achievers achieve. This is not a tautology: dreams spend their time dreaming; achievers live their dreams – they take stock of their lives, their ability and their goals, and take pleasure in the day-to-day grind of achieving what it is they want, whilst the dreamers return to their mundane existence and continue saying ‘I’d love to…’ whilst achievers see where they want to be and how they can get there by setting themselves goals they can achieve on the way to things which, on the fact of it, look impossible.

Evolution moves through many steps between the spark of life and its becoming intelligent – so too there are many imperceptible steps between the formulation of a dream and its being achieved. At least, it is imperceptible from the outside – in the successful dreamer’s consciousness, there is a never-ending stream of evaluation, feedback and progress. For the dreamer, there appear only lofty goals and escapism from the fact that they are taking no steps towards them.

For the dreamer who achieves, the limit of dreaming is only the length of their life.

(Source: lukelabern.com)

The Widower (short story)

“Eight decades is enough for me.”

The elderly man paused and tried to readjust himself in his armchair. In reality, he didn’t move an inch, being too weak to do so. Comfort was something he had long since forgotten about. It was now nothing but a habit that had long since become irrelevant. He sighed, looking about the dim room. He took a glance at the light in the ceiling, and thought that it was a touch too dark. He could barely see Alex, or himself for that matter. The curtains were also closed; there was an indeterminate amount of light outside. It was either the evening or very early in the morning, but it was too difficult to tell. He glanced at the fifty-year old clock on the mantelpiece, but, just like every day for the past few years, he realised that it had stopped ticking a long time ago. He could just about make out the minute hand – but that might well just have been a shadow.

‘Yes, eight decades is enough,’ he continued. It wasn’t quite clear if he was talking to Alex or simply outside, to quell the ennui – it seemed to change from time to time, in the middle of sentences. ‘A lot of people seem to want to live forever, but I don’t understand that. I suppose it all depends on the person. What does one want to accomplish? It can’t go on forever.’

He was forced to pause again to let out a hacking cough – each involuntary movement seemed to take a little bit more of his daily energy out of him, and there was an unquestionable look of pain racking over his face with each subsequent motion.

‘Don’t mind me, Alex – I’ll be alright. I’ve been through a lot worse. I’ll tell you what: if anything, this room is what needs looking after, not me! When was the last time those walls were cleaned? I can’t tell if that’s the pattern or some sort of grubbiness all over it. Are the walls yellow, or brown? …’ He seemed to peer intensely at the wall, but this was more a motion for the sake of it: all he could see was a dim, blurred collection of uninspiring colours on a flat surface. Suddenly, he seemed to remember something.

‘Ah, I’ve forgotten my tea!’ He had forgotten his own thirst. He turned very slowly to his side – his left, then his right – and looked for the cup and saucer he had used for the past fifty years. But he couldn’t find it. ‘Where is it…? I’m sure Leah made me some tea a few minutes ago.’ Leah was his carer, who came every day at nine in the morning. She hadn’t come that day, leaving him a message on the relatively-modern phone he didn’t know how to use, informing him that her sister had gone into labour. It was left unheard along with the other thirty messages he had never heard. In reality, she hadn’t made him tea in two weeks because he had refused, becoming quite annoyed with her for asking: he was sure he could make his own tea.

‘I hope she hasn’t stolen it. No, no, I’m sure she hasn’t. She’s a lovely girl, that Leah. I don’t know why she spends her time looking after me! But I do wonder where that tea has gone.’ He was lost in a poignant moment, and then began to talk to Alex again: ‘I cannot believe Diane and I got that cup and saucer all that time ago. What an awful wedding present that was! I can’t believe the Thompsons bought us a bunch of cheap pottery for our wedding. I’ve used the same set, in spite, for all these years.’

He and Diane had been married for forty years, and he still wore the wedding ring on his finger. He had never taken it off since that day in June, when he had thick, lustrous brown hair – when his eyes had watered as he saw his bride come down the aisle. Catching a glimpse of his hand, resting quite still on the side of the armchair, his face lit up. ‘The most beautiful woman I ever saw,’ he said, lost in reverie. After an indeterminate pause – longer than usual – he returned to his favourite topic. ‘Alex – did I ever tell you about how Diane and I met?’ In truth, he had told this story almost every day – whenever he saw the ring on his left hand, or enough light pierced through the curtains enabling him to see the photo of the two of them, aged thirty, outside of the church they had just been married in.

He closed his eyes as if he was travelling somewhere, and a powerful flicker of emotion ran across his face – the only time he ever felt like he used to was when he started this story, which he had refined down to an anecdotal art form. He was preparing for his performance.

*

‘I had just received the advance for my first book. It was a novel about a young man – a lothario – who ends up in Paris, having run away from England after stealing so many women that he was a wanted man. There, of course, he starts his new life, learning the language and embracing Parisian culture and whatnot, becoming infatuated with everything around him. Eventually, the tables are turned and he has the love of his life taken from him – and so on.’ The pace of his speech had quickened upon embarking this story – it was the only part of his day that was certain, that was easy to recall from memory. It was the routine upon which he kept hold of his sanity – his personality. His identity.

‘Of course, this was all just an excuse to research. I could easily have set it in the Cotswolds, but I fancied going to Paris. I was only twenty-one at the time, and I was in the prime of my life. With the advance money, I could afford all sorts. I could afford to lounge around in the cafes and watch the world pass me by. I would sit there each morning, studying those around me, listening to snippets of conversations, watching people argue, break up, put the world to rites – and of course, I would bask in the utter beauty of all the women. I wasn’t bad looking back then – I promise, Alex; now is no indication! – and I had my fair share of good times. The French women were… different from English women, that’s for sure. More passionate. And they had a distinctive look. But the language barrier was always a factor, as was the fact that I was just very English – with all that that entails. My sense of humour was always on a different page to them, and I would often be quite sardonic and laid back. We didn’t often gel. It was nearly always a temporary thing. I began to crave English women, but I was still only halfway through my novel. I was living too much, and not writing enough.’

He had to pause to catch his breath. He went to reach for his tea, again, but then realised it wasn’t there. He was aware that Alex was looking at him, and his pride became to sting him. He pretended that nothing had happened, and continued his story. He was always quite confident when he told it – it was as if he was twenty-one all over again.

‘And then, of course, I met her. We were at a Parisian nightclub and all the best-looking young men were following her around. She really was a sight to behold. Long, chestnut hair that ran just past her shoulders – chestnut eyes that would envelop you whole if you weren’t careful. She had a small frame, but she was… Magnificent. As soon as I saw her, I knew she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I wasn’t short of confidence, at any rate – but even I was intimidated. Of course, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. That entire evening, I could barely focus on drinking my whisky – I just caught quick glimpses of her through the smokey bar, the Jazz in the background melting away, until all I could think about was the life she and I could have. I began to wonder what it was that I wanted out of life.’

He stopped, this time not to pause for breath but to simply reminisce. This was one of his favourite parts of the story – the part where he became a young man again, of the same mind-set, with his whole future ahead of him.

‘Suddenly, I had a resurgence of confidence: what would be the point of this chance – the chance to live – if I didn’t go for all the things I wanted? What would be the point in living — when so many don’t get the chance — just to get to that moment and say, “well, she is gorgeous – but I can’t have her”. What else would have happened? I would have gone on, finished my book, being an unauthentic author; found some stable woman, and lived out that way. No, I couldn’t have that. At the least, I had to try.’

*

‘As she was leaving, I decided that I was going to go and speak to her. What about, I had no idea. But luckily, some brutish fellow put her hands on her, just as I was approach. If I could go back in time and thank him! I immediately rushed to her aid, pushing him out of the way and asking her if she was okay. “I’m fine,” she said, stopping me dead in my tracks. I have never encountered a look like that since. “But I can handle myself,” she quipped, walking off before I could catch her name or anything else.’ He smiled what was once a cheeky grin, but was now somehow more sombre. ‘I was devastated.’

‘You know, Alex,’ he started, going off in a tangent; ‘It’s funny how important memories are. You don’t realise it at the time, but that’s all we – I – have now. I have that photo there, and the images in my head. Nothing remains of my youth but the memories and the knowledge that I did it. It seems so long ago that it’s almost as different lifetime. Back when I was a little boy, about ten or so, I would try to compute the numbers in my head. “I can’t believe I’m in double figures!” I would say, shocked at how quickly time had flown. And now I’m eighty-three? Eighty-four? I can’t even remember. It seems impossible that you’ll grow up, back then. You almost assume that you’ll be a child, or a teenager, forever, and that the older version of you is a different person entirely… But, back to the story!’

‘I was devastated. But I couldn’t be beaten. Although I did wander around Paris for more than a few nights, completely drunk, starting fights with all sorts of people – anyone that reminded me of myself – I had resolved to see her again. And the next time I saw her, I was going to make it count. My novel sat unfinished in my hotel room, and I began to loathe it. How could I write about love when I couldn’t master my own lovelife? Who would want to read the ramblings of someone who couldn’t capture the person they desired more than anyone else in the world?’ The grin had returned to his face again, and for some reason the vigour with which he smiled was something extra-special: he had told this story so many times before, but he felt especially alive at this moment. His heart began to beat faster and he felt a shiver run down his spine that he hadn’t felt for many years. He was reliving the moment in especial detail.

‘I was nursing my wounds over some coffee in a café near Notre Dame – both physical, having taken on a group of men and barely walking away, and in my head – when I saw her. I only caught a glimpse, across a busy road and in a crowd. I had seen a woman walking with the most sensational walk I had ever seen, and then I realised it was her. There was no mistaking it. I bolted from my seat, spilling coffee all over myself and probably other people too, but I had no time to look behind me: everything I wanted was right in front of me. I darted into the traffic and barely made it across the road in one piece, but I eventually found her after looking around like a headless chicken. I couldn’t let her run away again.’

He began to not only adjust himself, but leant slightly forward, towards Alex. It was as if his body has rolled back the years and was coursing with a new lifeblood. There was something different in his veins.

‘I spotted her again and tapped her on the shoulder, with no idea what I was going to see. I was expecting horror, from the look of my face – and I did get that, but I also received something else I wasn’t expecting: a smile. “You found me,” she said, instantly touching my face with her delicate hands and looking at my wounds. “It looks like, far from me needing your help – you need mine.” She had no idea how right she was. I begged her – it seemed like begging, though in reality I tried to speak as smoothly as I could – to have some coffee with me. I just needed one chance to get to know her. I knew that this was my only opportunity to do so, and I succeeded. She said I had “a silver tongue,” and agreed.’

‘What followed was the most important conversation of my life. I realised so much about myself, and the world, that I couldn’t believe it. It was a revelation. It was nothing like I expected: not only was she the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, she was also the most intelligent. She was cleverer than I, or at least it seemed like it; she challenged everything I said, made me doubt my beliefs, my convictions and my desires. All expect one: that I wanted her.

‘”So, what is your book about?” she asked, looking into my eyes with intrigue and an interest I had never known before. It was as if she was more interested in me than I was about her – which couldn’t be possible. “It’s about a young man – a heartbreaker – who runs off to Paris –“ “To get his heart broken,” she finished. “Poetic justice,” she said, taking a sip of coffee. Her voice sounded honey-like, and I felt an array of emotions wash over me. The bruises all over my face ceased to pain me, and all I could feel was unabashed joy; ecstasy.

‘”So, what do you want to do with yourself?” she probed, and I almost blurted out “be with you,” but ended up affirming that I wanted to write successful books for a living, and to travel the world. We discussed everything: whether there was a God, what our ethical codes were, what our favourite drink was (we both like whiskey). I finally remembered that I hadn’t asked her name, and when she said her name for the first time, I knew I would never forget it. “Where are you from?” I asked, intrigued. “I was born in London but brought up in Paris.” It was perfect. She was exactly what I needed: she had all the English blood in her that run through me, and made me eventually repulsive to the French women, whilst simultaneously having the passion, delicacy and culture of a Parisian woman.

‘She was utterly perfect, Alex.’

*

‘I don’t know how long we conversed for: hours, I think. It was dusk by the time we left. Of course, we were completely inseparable from that moment on. I don’t know how, but somehow – and this is the best thing that ever happened to me – she seemed to be as taken with me as I was with her. We went straight from the café to my hotel room… and we were together from then on. I finished my book in a couple of weeks, spending all of my time with her, writing at night, whilst she slept. I would glance over from my desk, exhausted, take one look at her asleep, and instantly feel rejuvenated. I wrote so voluminously, so thoroughly, so passionately. It was all down to her. And the book was a success – it had her all over it. She was in each passage, in every character, in every line of dialogue. I was completely in love with life, and in love with her. And it’s been that way ever since. Ten years later, we were married. And then we travelled the world. We went to every major city in the world, off the money I earned from the books she inspired and I wrote. In every city she dazzled people with her beauty, and each night she would dazzle me with her conversation and intelligence.

‘I couldn’t have wished for anything more in life.’

Whilst he had spoken these things, he had seemingly been getting younger with each breath. By the time he reached this point he was speaking with such vigour it was as if he thirty years old again, on the night before his wedding. He hadn’t paused for a moment, as he reached the climax of his story. His past — his memories — were his fantasy.

‘And then she passed away.’ He was ripped from fantasy back into reality – from the passion and action of hotel rooms, of bars and clubs and all-night conversations; of kisses and palpitations, back into the silent, darkened, motionless room he had been living in for the past ten years. Seated in the armchair he always sat in – the throne of immobility — staring at the clock which didn’t move and the picture of his finest hour covered with dusk. The time was still indeterminate and the light-levels still confusing. It was either day or night, either one day or the next. He still wasn’t sure what colour the wallpaper was: yellow or brown.

‘Now I remember,’ he said with a sigh, sinking back into his chair, his age and his body. ‘She died of cancer ten years ago. I remember I stood over her in the hospital bed as she clasped my hands. She said to me, “Do you remember when we first met? I loved you from the moment I saw you, in that jazz club. I knew you’d find me.”

‘I kissed her on the forehead, tears rolling down both of my cheeks onto her skin,’ – a single tear rolling down slowly across his wrinkled face as it did each time he came to this part of the story, the tear coming to rest softly on his slightly parted lips before falling into the empty teacup and saucer which had been on his lap the entire time – ‘and I told her, “How could I forget? That was the moment I came to life. I love you.” And I promised her that I would always remember. Because memories are all we have.’

His voice trailing off into a whisper, he repeated: ‘We’ll always remember, won’t we, Alex?’ And, just like he did yesterday and would do tomorrow, the German Shepard finally replied, barking quietly as if to agree that they would, indeed, remember. Alex approached his master, curled up next to his feet, and they both fell softly asleep.

(Source: lukelabern.com)

The Celebration (short story)

Exams were over. It was by all accounts time to celebrate. They were that step closer to ‘the future’, but for now it had a positive spin on it. It was time to head to university, time to step from young adulthood into true adulthood, to take responsibility for their actions and to finally, after all these years, do what they wanted to do. They had summer ahead of them, one last summer in which to cling onto the now fading remnants of childhood: if only the weather would hold out, they’d have the beach to look forward to. They could make the most of their small seaside town before they spread out all over the country to all the big, landlocked cities and counties. This was it: a massive turning point. It would all start tonight, on this warm June evening which was rich with emotion and optimism. The first port of call, of course, was to decide what to do.

‘Do we drink?’ asked Kevin, already knowing the answer. None of them were big drinkers. They were relatively countercultural in that they didn’t adhere to the stereotypical youth mould. None of them were foul-mouthed louts; none of them were sex-obsessed, unintelligent, or yobbish. They were all quite unique and popular in a small scale way, finely appreciated by those who had the ability to perceive that the loudest people are not automatically the best. Mostly, though, they enjoyed each other’s company. They were a tight-knit group by any definition, and they knew far more exciting and experimental paths to hedonism than depressants and boisterousness. This was going to be their last time together, this summer, for quite some time, and they were fully aware of this. It would make sure to colour their actions and lust for life with an extra layer of vivacity. They always rose to the occasion.

Kevin’s question did not even require an answer, and it merely received chuckles in reply. They already knew what they would be doing that evening, and it was situated in Blake’s pocket in a thin, translucent bag. What was needed now was some light entertainment before the night began.

They all had their specialities, as it were: Kevin was a technical sort, adept at computing, spending much of his time programming clever applications on his computer. He was also quite well known around the town, and was popular simply because he was very easy going. His sense of humour allowed him to slot into any group and act as a social lubricant. He was also very quick to suggest or to spread his interests, specifically film and music. ‘I say we watch Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas whilst we… “wait”.’

Blake laughed, for this was the eighth time he had heard this in the past week. Perhaps it was finally time. He headed out of the lounge and into the kitchen to see what supplies were around. They would need fruit, preferably something full of vitamin C, and some chewing gum; drinks would also be particularly vital later in the evening. This left Kevin and Damon in the lounge, pondering over how to spend the next hour and a half or so. All talk of exams was strictly banned: they were done now, and it was time to celebrate. ‘Hard work now,’ as Blake had earlier said: ‘hedonism later.’

Damon was particularly fond of hedonism, and was a thoroughly popular member of the town also. If Kevin was a social lubricant, Damon was a necessary fixture in most conversations. He was particularly adored by his female peers, as they found him overwhelmingly ‘cute’, though it was usually up in the air as to whether this was a useful thing or not. ‘Maybe we actually should watch it. I’m up for anything tonight.’ A large, genuine grin made its way across his face as he said this, as his thoughts lingered to the contents of Blake’s pocket. At that moment, Blake returned to the room.

‘I’ve got no supplies, unfortunately. I’ll go and get some from up the road. What does everyone want?’ Blake asked, looking into his wallet, finding it empty.

‘Gum – and lots of it!’ Damon said.

‘And oranges,’ Kevin added. ‘I’ve got some money here, if you want.’

‘It’s okay,’ Blake replied, holding his hand up. ‘I’ll cover it, it won’t be much. But I will leave these here,’ he said, fishing his hand into his pocket and throwing three pink pills onto the table. ‘Don’t let the dogs eat them!’

‘I’ll put the film on,’ Kevin said. ‘You’ll love it!’ This was aimed at Damon, but he was currently looking at the screen of his phone, smiling at something. Damon was always smiling at something.

‘I won’t be too long – you can start without me. Have a smoke beforehand if you like. As soon as I get back, it’s time…’ Blake flashed them a powerful smile and left his lounge, putting his wallet back into his pocket after making sure his card was in there.

 *

Blake was happy to go on the quick trip to the supermarket up the road as it gave him time to think. He was very much a fan of time on his own, and he hadn’t had any time to himself after a very stressful day. He was often calm before his exams, especially ones that involved thinking logically, or persuasive writing – that was very much his forte – but that morning he had accompanied his girlfriend to the English exam and she had been anything but calm. Rather than spending the final moment before the exam revising some technical terms, or clearing his head of negative thoughts, he had spent it acting as amateur councillor, which, though he usually didn’t mind, was not something he wanted to do before a vital exam in which he was expected to do stunningly well. He was fine with the pressure, so long as he was allowed to prepare in whatever way he wanted. Somehow, he had managed to find time away from his girlfriend that evening, insisting they spend time with friends of their own gender that evening. It turned out that she had gone out drinking and clubbing, but that was put far into the back of his mind: there was a mind-blowing evening ahead, and right then, he had the whole world to himself, on his ten-minute round trip to collect supplies for what was sure to be an unforgettable evening. He put his noise-cancelling earbuds into his ears, pressed play and began the journey.

There was something special about that evening over and above exams being done and what was in store for him when he got home. The air was thick, imparting a particular emotion in him when he breathed in which he couldn’t quite describe. The stars were piercing through the dark sky above; there were no clouds above and apparently the light pollution of the urban setting was no match for the sheer power of those stars so far away in time and space. The streetlights were particularly attractive, and Blake would purposefully squint his eyes at time to morph the images all around him slightly. He was thoroughly enjoying himself and was allowing himself the freedom of nonchalance because of the occasion and his excitement. There seemed to be no one around. All he could see was the interplay between the darkness above and the reflections of the moonlight and street lights against the brickwork of the houses and occasional block of flats (which weren’t too tall as to imply council estate stereotypes) and the deep, dark hue of the tarmac. It began to strike him that these sights and sounds, which he had known since he could remember (he’d never lived anywhere else) would soon no longer be his everyday sights. He would be moving away and would soon call somewhere else home. But there was something particularly charming about his hometown, even though, through different eyes, its over-reliance on artificial elements like concrete, tarmac and other monochrome building blocks could easily render it a dark example of urban life and a move away from nature.

But Blake was ruminating on his exam performance and life in general. The exam had gone well, he would be heading to his university of choice and he had the whole summer to do, in essence, whatever he wanted. These thoughts gave him reason to smile to himself, completely ignoring the fact that he was now being tailed by a hooded figure that was increasing the speed of his footsteps with each passing moment. As Blake turned a corner, away from the more residential side of town and into an interconnecting alley which acted as a shortcut towards the commercial part of town, the hooded individual used that moment to sprint forward, unseen by anyone, right behind Blake.

Just a few feet behind Blake, he said in a low and aggressive tone, ‘Give me your money.’ But Blake had his headphones in – which was the only reason that this young man was able to creep up on him in the first place. As such, he didn’t respond. The man in the hood quickly realised this, spotting the white cable heading from Blake’s right ear to his pocket. He ripped it from his ear, and as Blake turned to investigate, he thrust himself towards him.

They were standing face to face: Blake was wearing nothing but a polo shirt and found the only thing in his view was a face he couldn’t quite make out. It was covered by a thick hood, though he could just about spot some thin facial hair around his upper lip and menacing eyes. Their noses were less than a few inches apart, and this man’s eyes bored into him. He repeated his demand.

‘Give me your money.’

It was only at this moment that Blake realised that he was in an awful position. His heart had begun to beat at a preposterously fast rate; adrenaline shot through all of his limbs and his legs began to quiver with anticipation. His fight-or-flight mechanism was in full swing. He began to think about striking the man with his elbow, following it with a quick knee to the sternum, but it was at this moment that his horror was fully realised.

Blake looked away from the man’s face and down towards the floor. He spotted the tell-tale shimmer and gleam of light running across the edge of a blade pressed to his stomach. It was not, as yet, posing him any harm, and he had not noticed it in his surprise, with his body primed for danger. This was certainly not how the human body evolved: it was not designed to cope to weapons such as this. The knife was pressed slightly further towards him: his t-shirt now had an indent in it as the blade began to pierce through the perforations in its surface.

All of this had happened in milliseconds: Blake now knew that his plan to incapacitate the threat was now impossible. It was now his duty to comply with this man’s orders as best as he could.

‘I don’t have any money on me.’ He felt a quiver as the blade retracted and then found its way back to him again, but only by millimetres.

‘I can see the wallet in your pocket.’

Blake knew that he had made a grave error by not keeping his wits about him. He was usually extremely perceptive, especially of dangers such as this – he was even quietly confident about dealing with this sort of situation. But he had no plan whatsoever being caught out: his entire strategy was built around his ability to act first, and swiftly. He was unnerved by the man’s perceptiveness; he had never felt so vulnerable. ‘There’s no money in it: only my card.’

The man made a kind of grunt, in anger. ‘Don’t move. I’m taking your wallet out of your pocket.’ He did this slowly, making sure that the knife was kept as close as possible to Blake’s stomach. He moved his left hand away from the back of Blake’s right shoulder and slipped it into Blake’s right pocket, retracting the wallet out, flipping it open and finding his card, all with one hand. This was not his first time.

‘There’s a cash point down just ahead. We’re going to walk there and you’re going to take out all of the money you can, and give it to me. Now turn around and walk calmly. If anyone sees us, do not pull anything funny. I’m warning you.’ This man was particularly blunt and clear: it was almost as if he sensed that Blake was intelligent and wanted to make sure that he understood his instructions to a T, not finding any clever loopholes.

In the process of turning around, back to the way he was originally facing, Blake experienced a surge of emotion just as strong as the one he had done earlier, when he had taken a deep breath and looked up at the sky. Only this time, it wasn’t joy that he was feeling, but utter panic. Somehow, Blake felt that in the two minute walk to the cash point, he should try to talk to the man who was threatening him with death. For some reason, bravery found its way firmly into his thoughts: he decided that not all would-be victims had his ability to structure and use language to achieve ends. He decided that he would talk.

 *

 As they began to march slowly forward, Blake knew that, far from being a help, if anyone else appeared on the scene things could go from bad to worse. This man was just as nervous as he was, he knew that: any sudden movements would be out of the question, just as it would be fatal for the two of them to have to pretend that they weren’t intertwined in a crime. The hooded man held the knife right behind Blake’s lower back, standing on his right, constantly looking out for anyone who could spoil his crime.

Blake took a deep breath, after walking for half a minute or so. ‘Why are you doing this?’

The man made the same noise as before. ‘Don’t talk.’

For whatever reason, Blake didn’t heed his advice and carried on. ‘I’m going to give you all the money I have in my bank: I’ve got about fifty. Can’t you just tell me why you’re doing this? There’s no need to point the knife in my back: I’m hardly going to run off. I can tell you need the money.’

‘What did you say?’ the man quickly said, especially aggressively this time. ‘Don’t try to analyse me. Just shut the fuck up and keep walking.’

Blake’s adrenaline had now restored him to his fully confident state: he was not a young man who respected fear, and though there was a knife now digging into the skin of his lower back muscle, he refused to back down from his attempts to talk to the man. ‘If only I had taken the pills with me,’ he thought; ‘I could have bribed him with them. Or if only I had taken Kev’s money…’

The cash point was just up ahead. Blake’s thoughts now turned simply to getting the money out of his account, into the man’s hands and being able to get home. Home had never seemed to appealing now – and his hometown, with its many urban structures, its manmade edifices and its streetlights, had never looked so appalling. The streetlights seemed to give off an air of vulgarity, of disdain, of everything that was wrong with the world. Blake’s mind-set was oscillating wildly – violently, even. At moments he wanted to strike this man; knock him off his feet, kick the knife away from his grip and unload with almighty blows to his face, punishing him for who he was and what he was doing. Then he would come to his senses and bemoan whatever sad state of affairs forced a young man, no older than him, to violently rob people on the street. He was beginning to feel dizzy and almost lost his bearings.

They had reached the cash point. From the hooded man’s point of view, this was the riskiest part of the operation: the centre of town was literally a cross-roads, with lots of open spaces and nowhere to hide. No one was there, for now, so this had to be quick. Blake was positioned at the cash point with the hooded man close behind him, now pointing the knife towards the side of his right abdomen, concealing the weapon in case anyone happened to walk past.

‘Type in your PIN.’

Blake did: six-five-seven-three. He pressed the corresponding buttons to take out fifty pounds, but the man wasn’t so slow.

‘Let’s check your balance first.’ For some reason, this sent a shiver down Blake’s spine. Why someone who was clearly not unintelligent resorting to this? There were no, ‘why me?’ thoughts, mainly exasperation: he didn’t see why it was necessary. He had never been touched by crime before, not this kind. He almost laughed when he considered that the pills at his house were illegal: this, this robbery was illegal. This was crime. What he wanted to do in his own house was his own choice: it didn’t harm anyone. He knew the black market was just like this, and he’d much rather not feed it money. But it still struck him that this sort of thing is what the police should have been cracking down on, not the billowing smoke filling his room at home, where Kevin and Damon were currently sitting, having abandoned the film, wondering where Blake was. Blake was now extremely exhausted, despite the fact it had been only a few minutes since he had been ripped from ecstasy into the dark reality he was now subject to.

Blake pressed the corresponding buttons. Each bleep that the ATM made angered the hooded man: it was just another way to attract attention. Though it clearly wasn’t Blake’s fault, he was getting more and more agitated.

‘You little shit.’

The balance read eighty pounds. Blake had forgotten that his father had put money in his account earlier that day – quite forgivable in any other circumstance, but not in this one.

The attacker was now becoming incensed. ‘Finishing the fucking transaction, and give me your wallet. You’ve probably got some more in there hidden away. I’m not taking any chances with you, you seem to think you’re very clever.’

Blake finished pressing all the right buttons and the eighty pounds came out of the machine. The hooded man took it, and began to count it. At the same moment, Blake reached for the wallet that was now in his left pocket, having instinctively putting it back. His unconscious didn’t seem to realise that he was undergoing a crime and that such trivial moves became hugely important. Blake turned to hand the man the wallet.

‘Here. I hope you use—‘

Blake was interrupted by the three inch blade which was driven into his stomach just to the side of his naval. Catching the motion only from his peripheral vision, the man had mistaken Blake handing him the wallet for an attack, and had plunged the knife into his stomach, impulsively and violently. Aghast, he made tragic eye contact with Blake as he looked down into his wound, noticing that his once-white polo was now soaking up the blood pouring from the hole in his stomach, the knife having been retracted.

Blake tried to speak, but couldn’t. He tried to mouth something, but the murderer had already bolted and was already out of sight. Blake fell to the floor and clutched at his stomach, blood seeping through the space between his fingers. The back of his head cracked against the pavement, and he laid flat on his back, staring straight up into the night, the light pollution from the town now taking hold.

He caught one final glimpse of the fading stars in the sky, and lost consciousness.

(Source: lukelabern.com)

78 Minutes

Matthew was kept alive by a machine. He had had a heart attack aged just twenty-three years old, and had he not suffered his cardiac arrest where he did, he would have remained. I do not say, ‘would have died’, because in all senses of the word, he was dead. He was dead for seventy-eight minutes, according to the paramedics who worked on him.

He collapsed on returning home from one of his rambles into the countryside. Matthew’s favourite thing was nature. He loved nothing more than to spend his free time walking along the Seven Sisters, with or without company, pondering on the deep questions as he stared into the horizon and wondered what was next for him. He would spend hour upon hour there, and only illness could keep him away. In his room could be found all sorts of boots, outdoor jackets, waterproofs, magazines on the topic and his journal. No weather could hold him back from his love, and his mother would spend most of her time teasing him for bringing home yet muddier clothing.

It was on a March day, with considerably brighter weather than usual – a true spring day – that he had returned home from one such walk. He was headed for his home in the small town that was a few minutes walk from the cliffs themselves, and it was only seconds away from his house that he had felt a burning sensation, which gave way into a constricting, squeezing feeling begin to spread from the centre of his chest into his left arm. He began to clutch at his heart in the tell-tale manner, and within seconds he had collapsed onto the thick pavement underneath him, cracking his skull with the force of the fall. Seconds later, through sheer luck, a young woman spotted him lying on the floor and immediately knew that her day had taken a solemn turn. She moved him into the recovery position, listening for his breathing and began to perform the CPR she had learnt last summer, crying out ‘Someone call an ambulance!’ as she was busy acting as Matthew’s lungs.

When the ambulance arrived with its striking blue-lights, piercing through the lounge curtains, disturbing me from the book I was engrossed in, it was then that I looked out of the window and saw my brother lying on the pavement just outside our house.

*

The great irony in all of this is that Matthew would spend half of his time in adoration of the natural world, and the other half bemoaning humanity’s increasing reliance on technology. He was almost pedantic at times, and though he never argued against the uses of advancements in medical technology, he had a different concept of what it was to be human. He was a biologist at heart, a zoologist: his love was all that was living. Computers, electricity, components, circuits, graphics; virtual reality – none of that mattered to him. I remember many vivid conversations we had on the topic: I would play devil’s advocate and put tough questions to him, and he would always answer me very competently. No, Matthew was quite intelligent: controversial, and at times inflammatory – but always thought provoking. But of all the ideas that Matthew sowed, none had such a great effect on me as that moment that the paramedic who had saved his life had told me, candidly, just outside Matthew’s room at the hospital that he had been ‘quite dead for seventy-eight minutes’.

I thanked him for all he had done and entered into the room, sterile and silent except for the slow, weak but steady pulse of my brother’s now functioning heart. But it was not under his control: he was kept alive only by the large machine to his left which was regulating his pulse and keeping the blood pumping round his body. Mother was weeping quietly in a chair by his side, and our father was on his way from work having heard the news. Who knows how many risks he took speeding there?  Eventually she left to get some tea from the café downstairs, and I was left alone with my brother.

‘I can’t believe that I was right beside you, and yet didn’t see or hear a thing. Only bricks separated us. I was completely unaware that my own brother died beside me. I feel like such a failure.’ I paused – I don’t know for how long. I was not the sort of person to engage in platitudes, and neither was he. If he could hear me, he would know how I felt through the emotional vibrations from my voice; from the sparse, slow tears that rolled down each cheek as I remonstrated with myself and tried to simultaneously eulogise and comment on the resurrection of my brother. I had, by now, almost left my body through the shock of the events and had taken on a wholly philosophical nature – I had almost become my brother. ‘You do know that, if it wasn’t for all of those things hooked up to you, you wouldn’t be alive? I can’t imagine it. I’ll never comprehend it.’ I broke off in rumination.

I moved the chair closer to my brother and I simply stared at him. I don’t know how long this went on for, but I studied every feature, every pore. I adored my brother: I don’t know what I would have done without him. He was very much unconscious, but he was alive. I wondered if he was having any sort of thoughts, or dreams. I almost began to wonder if this whole thing was a sort of nightmare in the first place. I wanted to know what it felt like to die. I tried to ask him, but I was almost too shy. Not that he would have heard. I had been taken back years; I was a little boy again. I remembered the first time I ever really got mortality: I was listening to a particularly depressing piece of electronic music in my darkened bedroom, with only a computer screen to provide light: I was heavily in the throng of teenage angst, angry at whoever or whatever. It was at this moment that death made the transition from word, to concept; it was then that I realised that death wasn’t a thing, it was a negation. It wasn’t something new, it was the end.

I realised that the very fact I was thinking, the very fact I was able to take stock of my past, to perceive the present and to postulate about the future would, one day, no longer be possible. I would not feel my death, I would not be conscious of it: death was literally the cessation of all feeling, thinking and being in the conscious sense. These thoughts all returned to me now, as I sat with my brother who had now returned from the dead. I do not know how much of this I spoke out loud, how much of it was fragmented dialogue and how much of it inner dialogue, but I truly believe this was one of the most memorable moments of my life. I experienced would could only be described as a change in my philosophy. I began to reassess everything around me differently. I became more mature in an instant. I dropped all grudges, I appreciated everything around me: the very fact I was able to sit there – even in my agony at what had happened – able to take breaths almost became an ecstasy to me.

I had met with death – no, it had placed its hand on my shoulder – and I saw things clearly. My brother had experienced the worst, and then the greatest, of luck, but I was simply there to sit on the side lines and contemplate it all. I cannot lie and say that there was a certain morbidity in me for quite a while. I tried not to let it spill outwards, and for this very reason I spent a lot of time on my own. The only person I wanted to speak to from then on was my brother: he was the only person I could talk to about the subject. Surprisingly (though it was not surprising to me), Matthew was willing to talk about the subject.  Though he had had his seventy-eight minutes and had somehow returned, we both knew that eventually, there would come an infinitesimal rest for everyone and everything. We had promised one another never to take anything for granted, and promptly began living our lives to the fullest at all opportunities. As he regained his health, we quickly returned to our standard source of humour: each other. Even in our hardest-hitting conversations, he showed what I can only described as magnanimity.

‘How does it feel to have an electric pacemaker buried within you?’ I asked him, smiling. ‘It’s the perfect cross-section between man and machine. You must hate it.’

‘One-zero-zero-one-one-one-zero.’

One or the Other

‘You are the best I’ve ever had,’ she would say to him time after time. It had become a phrase he heard so often that it almost faded into the background. It was only when it caught him unawares that it really struck him. ‘You are the best. The best lover, the best person, the quietest, the strongest, the most ambitious – the most talented.’

These sorts of superlatives are to be expected in the throngs of passion – love and young lovers especially – when humans are yet young and relatively untouched by the weight of the necessities of life, especially its cessation. Almost as if they sense that they are at their height of health, happiness and innocence – though they have nothing to contrast it with, and will look back on their times with a nostalgia that at times is overwhelming – they live their lives through others. They live through their emotions, through their bodies, through sexual encounters and through impetuous decisions. This being said, she really did mean it: he may well have been ‘the best’, and to he remained: she never used that term to describe a future lover, even though it had no impact outside of the breath it required. There was a part of her that felt indebted to what she had experienced in their time together. But this is skipping too far ahead, and it is time to explain a little about why he was so highly valued as a lover – and why he had to leave her.

His name was Pascal. Was he really all of those things that she described? He was – but there is no objectivity in these matters, so the fact that he was prone to jealousy, that his individuality led him to be anti-social at the best of times and his precisely defined outlook on life severely restricted the number of people that he could consider a friend are all relevant in assessing his character. But the fact remains that he really was a strong character, unafraid both of the world and of individuals: he was ambitious to the point of inspiring others and was talented in various respects. As a lover he was, as Chloe knew so well, excellent. Though it should be noted that she was too: she was a stunning physical specimen with eyes that would stop either gender in their tracks, and perhaps even the fiercest of animals too: she was able to tame, subdue and control almost anyone with the greatest of ease.

She was intelligent, though rarely applied herself to academic studies: she was happiest in the realm of people and of low-level psychology; psychology that would get her what she wanted. Her only downside was her questionable moral character – but that was only an issue because of the immense power she possessed. It is a fact that is perhaps not well known (though truth does not rely on its being believed, it stands independently of belief) but the twenty-first century is the female’s playground. Specifically young women with sex appeal – though failing this, confidence alone. It is a shame that most women still succumb to the preordained stereotypes of the time and throw themselves at men who appear to be carefree, but are really simply quite stupid and plain. The fact is that, if these beautiful young women had the ability to reflect inwards, rather than looking at their reflection in their mirror, they would see that they already have all the tools in the world to make men throw themselves at them, and not the other way around.

Chloe was one of the rare girls who knew this: and Pascal, for all his strengths, was easily manipulated by her. Though it is strictly incorrect to describe this as a weakness: it is a charming feature of the most perceptive people that they allow themselves to succumb to certain guilty pleasures, and creates all the friction needed in the world for art, thought and great conversation: those who believe themselves bored are they only truly superfluous people in the world today.

They were a strong match: they were both physically attractive, equally so: they were also both of a powerful mind, though Pascal was markedly quicker – especially as he spent his time on matters of serious important whilst she focused on affecting other people’s behaviour, as we have seen. Heads would turn to look at them when they passed, as the pure embodiment of a young couple who were thoroughly in love. But as is prudent to remember: what the surface describes does not necessarily correlate to the inner contents.

They were both highly passionate, and opinionated: their arguments were fierce to the point of destructive. They would say things that, before the relationship, would have been unthinkable. This was certainly the case for Pascal: Chloe was used to this sort of behaviour and was barely fazed by it, but he was shaken at the man he had become over the duration of their relationship, which was by this stage twelve months. As ambitious as he was, and as highly valued as he was in this relationship – and as highly as others viewed him – there was a nagging wound in his conscience. As he watched the days pass and awoke each day to expect an argument (which he always received), he began to grow quite world-weary and felt older than his years. The confidence that has once been his lifeblood (and was one of the most influential reason Chloe fell for him, and was, quite possibly, the very reason he was a young man that was looked up by people of all ages) had started to wain. It had been replaced by tiredness and bitterness, a kind of reservation that this was all that he had left. He was with a beautiful, stunning young woman who could and would have any man she so desired, but she was infatuated with him: she knew that of all the attention she had received, of all the people she knew and had been with, he was ‘the best’.

This buoyed him up to no end, and was perhaps the main reason that he stayed with her for another six months after he began to truly feel tired of life. But a man aged twenty should not be tired of life: he should be carving his name into the earth and leaving a mark that will never be forgotten. Instead, he was wasting his time and his energy in petty arguments that left them both frustrated. Of course, she still adored him. Following one particularly heated argument and after they had (as always) reunited, she said:

‘I literally cannot get enough of you. Even when you argue, I adore it: I get to feel your passion, I get to experience you … I get to be impressed upon by you.’

At this, Pascal was struck powerfully by two antithetical emotions: on the one hand he was flattered, as always. She truly meant this – as much of a reputation as he had as someone of a different calibre to others, to the norm, there had never been anyone who had complimented him this highly, this strongly, this consistently. And she knew him inside and out: if anyone was capable of judging his character, it was she. His confidence has been split into two separate branches and…— but we shall get to this later. The other emotion that winded him was a complete distaste, almost nausea. She truly meant that she adored arguing with him: the one thing that was draining the very life out of him was something she enjoyed doing it. It was quite as if she was literally draining the life out of him; each day she was draw a little more of his confidence, his passion for life; she would sink her teeth into his neck, draw it out, then wipe her supple lips and kiss him leaving a reminder on his of what he was losing each day he stayed with her.

And so it continued: they would argue more and more, but she would still ply him with these compliments that had attained the status almost of an addictive nature. They were the only thing providing sustenance. To the two branches of confidence: this was the one that she supplied him with, a kind of lover’s confidence. He knew that he was able to satisfy her emotionally, psychologically, intellectually, physically and sexually – this had been proven time and time again with the women he had been with, but this relation was a step above in terms of its intensity. More importantly than that, it was his current relationship: he being a philosophically minded young man, he knew that the present was the only thing that mattered, for it was the only thing he could control. (This was also one of his secrets, and the reason he had such a powerful influence. It is often very simple tenets that drive the greatest people…)

The other type of confidence was exactly what he was now missing. It was the reason that he was viewed so highly, and the very reason that she loved him to the degree that she did. Pascal was unique because of the sheer variety and intensity of different traits that was contained within him: he was a superb lover, but he was not arrogant; he was quite adept in all things physical but was a pacifist: he was a philosopher, a hard worker, a part-time addict and above all, he would support and fight for those he loved. It was precisely for this reason that he could sustain only a few, and had attained an almost enigmatic stature amongst those that didn’t know him: he was seen as mysterious; other men would respect him or would despise him – but this was merely subverted respect, and they saw him as competition. He simply fed off of this: he drew confidence from so many things that it would be impossible to list. This could best be described as general life confidence: it was the confidence that propelled him through life; the same invisible spirit that moved his body when he was racked with pain, the same force that allowed him to endure the company of people he hated and the same one which allowed him to make difficult decisions that he simply had to make. And such a decision he had to make, precisely concerning the confidence itself.

Whilst Chloe had fallen for him because of this inimitable confidence, she did not seem to realise that every day she spent with him, tormented and chastised him, the less he had. His fear was that it could not be regenerated: he had to leave her. Lover’s confidence was not enough to sustain him in his life: he was simply too ambitious.

Having explained this all to her, in more emotional terms and, whilst trying to quell her tears and simultaneously not make body contact, he would tell her comforting platitudes: ‘You’ll find someone else.’ Pascal hated the fact that, though he was trying to do something for both of their sakes – namely to save them both from a repetitive set of arguments and a lifestyle that lowered their self-worth – he was being painted thoroughly in the cast of the person in the wrong. It was he was in the wrong for breaking her heart, even though she had consistently chipped away at the very fabric of his identity and had led him to question himself and his beliefs for the first time in two decades. It was he who would be known as ‘the bastard’, and it was she who was known as the victim. He would rather neither of those terms be used – for he despised labels in general, as perhaps we all should – but he knew that for the sake of his ambition, for the sake of his talent and ability to see his ambitious blossom, he would have to endure these moments. And so he did.

The weeks following the break-up were less difficult than he expected. Not having to wake up and defend his innocent actions as if they were treason was like having a weight removed from him that allowed his mood to lift exponentially. Though he was perhaps sombre for a while after, he was more quiet and thoughtful, as if recovering from injury and trying not to strain himself. But now time had passed, and he had gained his confidence back. Thankfully for him, he was able to regenerate it: within three months he had not only restored himself but he had reached new heights.

He found that he was a young man in the prime of his life: he was in supreme physical shape, his intellectual was sharp and probing; he was affable, relieved to be able to converse with people when he chose, not when he was expected to. He had his independence and his freedom back. He was a youth and was blessed with the mind of someone who was near the end of their youth, though in his age he was still young: he was able to act with a foresight that none of his peers were able to. This allowed him to catapult himself to a new level and inspire a whole new set of people: he would wake with a smile of assurance and knew, as he looked into the mirror in the morning and combed his hair to the side – out of his face, exposing his sterling eyes – what he needed to do and how to achieve it. He was at the height of his life thus far, and the near future would be all the brighter for his careful attention to the present. The past was the past, and the future long ahead would be decided by his actions now.

As the days wore on and he became the man he had dreamt of – and then something more, as he became a man he didn’t even realise he was capable of – there rose within him a certain creeping feeling. A nihilation, a lack, a nothing. His lover’s confidence had long since gone. He had sacrificed it for his goals in life. Whilst he had wealth, whilst he had adulation and respect from all quarters, one thing was missing: there was no one there to tell him that he was ‘the best’ lover. There was no delicate touch on his arm, there was no whisper in the night-time to tell him that he was loved; there was no waking to a beautiful face worthy of idolatry, there were no soft lips, there was no championship and there was no romantic love. No: he has his life’s confidence, but he did not have the confidence of a lover. He did not have the satisfaction of a compliment post-orgasm and he had no one to pass the time with. He would pass beautiful girls in the street, and smile; he would engage with them in conversation, but at no point could he risk what he had achieved for their intoxicating perfume or enchanting laughter.

Though he had his wealth, his intellect, his ambition and his life’s dream, he did not have love – he did not have his lover. When he had love, he did not have those things – and when he had those things, he did not have love. And this will always be the case, because no one can have every thing.

(Source: lukelabern.com)

Background Noise

It is only be embracing who and what we truly are that we can gain mastery of ourselves.

What good does it do to lie to yourself and tell you that you are moral, that you ‘wouldn’t hurt a fly’, that you place others before your self? You only look into the mirror and see a distorted image of who is really standing before you. You see what others see: a sheath of skin covering the various muscles and tendons of the face as you bring a false smile to your face. When you politely smile that false smile – oh, how polite you are! – when you ask them, as genuinely as you can: ‘How are you?’. (Remember to show your teeth, so they don’t guess that you not only want to ignore them. But not only this: you would like to bore your eyes into them and pour your derision all over them.)

Oh, how polite we are. But even I admit that this is necessary. I overheard a brief snippet of a conversation between an (almost) innocent girl and her world-weary male counterpart, and they got to the nub of the situation:

‘If only everyone was honest with each other,’ she sighed. (I do not berate her for this statement – she seemed so thoroughly dismayed with humanity at the time that I almost wanted to pat her on the back.) ‘Why can’t that be the case?’

Her friend gave her a complicated look. Part of him was pleased that he had time to discuss such an interesting issue; another part of him wanted to embrace her for her precious naivety – but a bitter side (which also happened to be the side of reason – it often is) told her straight: ‘because the world would fall apart.’

She was struck by this statement and wanted to retaliate with some generalised statement about ‘how wonderful humanity is, on the whole’ – but she knew better. He wasn’t often wrong, at least when it came to brute facts. Everyone has their opinion on the matter, of course – but that doesn’t mean everyone has an opinion worth listening to (unfortunately, this is apparently not a widely-held view and even people who have nothing to say about a topic are still allowed to eschew their trite and ridiculous outlooks).

‘It takes only a few seconds to realise that if everyone was completely honest with each other, the entire edifice of civilisation would come crumbling down. Even between you and I,’ he explained, looking her directly in the eye so as to judge her reaction. ‘If you had access to every thought in my head – all day, every day – you would find things you didn’t want to know.’ He paused, wondering how best to explain (another chance to study her: he did not want to pain her, but he wanted to get over the full force of his point). ‘You would find thoughts half-formed; clumsy; erratic. You would find me in bad moods, you would find me in apathy, you would find me – to be blunt – you would catch me when I am wrong. I speak only when I have considered all of my thoughts: my consciousness is like a notebook with all of my ideas in it, but what I say is what I believe in – it is what I commit to, it is what I stand by.’

She understood instantly, but wanted to draw him into deeper exposition. ‘So I guess it’s like when you spend too much time with someone, you both get annoyed and need space.’

He nodded. ‘Exactly. But not only that: you would be partial to things that person has no control over. Impulses, desires and unchecked, intense emotions that have no place out in the open.’ He had saved his most poignant point for last: ‘unfortunately, everyone has terrible thoughts even about those they love. Imagine: at your worst (as we all have), we have said, “I hate you!” to someone whom really we couldn’t live without. If they were able to speak this, just imagine the things they thought, and must think all the time.’

She was struck by this, and felt stupid for even asking her original question. ‘I don’t know how I didn’t realise this before,’ she whispered quietly. She whispered partly because she didn’t want to come to terms with how badly she had misjudged humanity, and partly because she didn’t want her friend to think little of her. He didn’t: I don’t either. In her case, I don’t: she really is innocent and was persuaded by her argument that ‘honesty is the best policy’.

But I am not concerned with people like her.

I am concerned with the people who do spend their time thinking about humanity and its fault. I am concerned with the people who not only consult their reason, but live their lives under its influence. I am interested in the people who see things the way they really are. But this is a larger category than we might have thought: the problem is that this category sub-divides and heads in two very different directions.

There are those who see how things really are and take action: they understand their limits, they confine themselves at most to confidence, but never arrogance: they see that their place in the universe is a very small one (an infinitesimally small one) but nonetheless live their lives in the knowledge that it is all they have. I will not say that they ‘strive for good’, but they, at the very least, ask all the right questions – even if they don’t find the right answers. Most importantly of all, they are the people who criticise themselves. They are critical of the world around them, but they are equally – if not more – critical of themselves. If one does not have knowledge of one’s self, one cannot gain control of one’s self. Without mastery of one’s self, there is no way that one can master anything else on this earth and in this world. At least, not responsibly. So it is not these people I am concerned with – these people are people. They are not robots. They are not controlled by others; they do not follow orders without asking questions; they do not act or speak without first speaking: they are human beings. They err, but they are accountable for their errors. Most of all, they punish themselves more harshly than anyone or anything else on the planet possibly can.

No: I am concerned with the lowest of the low. I am concerned with those people who are intelligent enough, perceptive enough and powerful enough to see the inner-workings of the world, of nature, of people and their habits but who criticise all but themselves. They are arrogance incarnate. Arrogance? What is arrogance – what is wrong with that? Arrogance is a word that has lost its stigma: I say that it should regain it, that to be labelled ‘arrogant’ is to have the greatest blemish on one’s character imaginable. It is the sign of a man who thinks he is a God, but whose existent is just as vacuous. He believes he can do things which he cannot. He takes pride in things he has not and cannot accomplish. The arrogant man is not a man at all.

Those who do not see things how they really are do not even deserve comment: they merely are. They are. They exist. They make up what it is we can observe, study and predict. They have their flashes, alright, but they are simply there.

My concern is with the ‘people’ who dissect the work of creative individuals without producing anything of their own. That is exactly their function: to criticise. It is rarely, if ever, ‘constructive’ – creation is construction and these people live to tell other people what they cannot do, whilst simultaneously supposing they could do all these incredible things but choose not to.

They lie to themselves. They lie to others. They mask their inabilities through criticism of those who at least try to make change and live their lives knowing it is their only one.

But criticism without reason is diabolical. I will be the first to tell a person that they are despicable, but I will not dodge the question as to whether I am the same as them. Words without substance are vacuous viruses: a nuisance at best. I am the first to admit when I have let the entire race down. I will be the first to chastise and harm myself when I have failed, or lied for gain…

I was once a happy man – though such a word is one-dimensional at best, and even those unperceptive people have more than one dimension – but what it happiness? Oh, that is for another time. What’s really important is that I hold myself accountable for all that I do. I perceive things all around me, and I am quick to criticise – but before I perceive, I have spent many, many an hour reflecting and criticising myself. Comparing myself not with other people, but who I was and who I could be – and what I need to sacrifice to become him.

I see myself for who I really am, better than anyone else can. I have access to all of my thoughts. I am in touch with all of my ‘impulses, desires and intense emotions,’ as that young man said, and it is precisely because of these that I notice all the hypocrisies rife within me, and by extension with man itself.

You might be surprised how easy it is to suppress the perceptions you have of yourself. I did it for a long, long time. No: it takes a brave man to wear his flaws on his sleeve and say to the world: ‘This is me: these are my errors. These are my weaknesses and I am not trying to hide them from you. I have my strengths, of course, but please, know that I know myself.’ I give people looks, barely knowing what I look like (because you can’t practise these sort of impromptu looks in the mirror) screaming out: ‘I know myself!’ It’s no wonder they often look away.

But this is all the wrong way to go about it.

I realise now that no one wants to hear what I have to say: why would they? They’ve gotten along fine without the truth for quite some time now – or at the very best they will read the truth in a book, savour it for a moment, smile in the satisfaction that they have gotten to the heart of things and put the book (and the thought) down again. No one wants to hear that they need to berate themselves when they have done wrong: people would rather self-harm, would rather drink bottle after bottle of throat-lacerating poison or numb themselves with various flavours of psychoactives.

I used to be among them, but now I have a better way. Avoiding these problems – all this escapism – is not the best method. No, this only reinforces the feeling of worthlessness, or the need for punishment. Humans do not need to be punished. We do not need God to punish us, nor must we flagellate ourselves until our backs are raw from all the hate and dissatisfaction we have.

I say: embrace it. Take your flaws and bathe in them. All you have is your flaws. It couldn’t be any easier: everything you need to do in life is right before you. You couldn’t ask for a simpler layout: what you need to achieve is already labelled for you. Strengths only go so far – strengths are boring. And boredom is to be avoided. This is exactly why those arrogant souls deserve nothing: they talk about only themselves; they feel the need to tell everyone that they are ‘a big deal’. Abominable sub-humans. Vile reptilians: waste of skin, waste of flesh, waste of breath, waste of time. I can barely concentrate…

True majesty is the man who spends all his time in consort with his demons, tormented by his flaws and all he cannot achieve, every mistake he ever made, dreaming of his future. Each day he wakes and what strikes him first as he regains consciousness is his sense of failure: yet he grinds his teeth, marches from the moment he leaves his place of rest and is indefatigable in all that he does. His failures weigh heavily on his shoulders, but for all the right reasons. He toils each day, sacrificing the time and effort needed to shape himself into the statute he wants to be – for he is still a jagged mass of rock, sharp to the touch and ungainly to look at. At night he tortures himself and nearly ends it all. But he is silent about it. Inwardly, he screams violently until his blood runs cold and his voice is in shreds, but he never makes an outward sign. He does his time and he strives: pain is inevitable, but it is a sign that he is alive. He lives for pain.

Whilst others shout to the heavens how wonderful they are, the majestic man watches, absorbs and staggers forward. At times he strides, but only when no one is looking. No one must know what he is planning: they must think that he is one of many, when really is an individual never to be repeated or forgotten. He plans things that will benefit all – even those he hates – whilst they continue to fill the air with their toxic arrogance.

True majesty is the moment that the man, after years of planning, after years of sacrifice and after years in the simple – and yet incredibly difficult – business of living, reveals himself to the world. He never speaks a word, but everyone says it for him. This is all that matters. His pride is selfish, but the world’s pride in him is meaningful. It has the power to move and to inspire. Still never uttering a word, he simply stands. People take notice.

The arrogant ones, the critical ones… the vile ones: they fall silent. Their claims to greatness are found to be fraudulent. If they try to speak, they are silenced. All the cacophony of the world – which the majestic man never heard, focusing purely on his flaws and his immorality, on his impure thoughts and on his selfishness – falls quickly, and all pause for thought.

The penny drops: what were these arrogant things? They were noises, not statutes. They were hallucinations; holograms. They had no presence, nor clout; no originality, no power. They were noise: they had nothing to say. They were not humans, they were not even boys. They were background noise. And now they are silenced. It only remains for the majesty to have its true reveal: and its reveal is devoid of all pomp and circumstance: it is simply a revelation. It is not the coming of a new age, a new discovery or a new school of thought: it is nothing new at all. It is simply a reminder of all that has come before, and all that should be. It is a reminder that majesty is the silent one who carries his burden, embraces his flaws, swallows his medicine, embraces his pain and does not tell the world about it. “Majesty!” is proclaimed by all but the majestic, never the majestic itself – the majestic is too busy, too busy in the process of toiling, loving, striving, hurting, enduring, embracing, overcoming, thinking, withstanding, understanding… being.

The majesty is, simply: a man.

(Source: lukelabern.com)

Three Walks (short story)

Preamble

Ivan was in one of his moods. He had had an average day in all senses of the word: he had woken up with a little under seven hours sleep (when he needed at least eight) and the bags under his eyes gave him a rough edge. He had not felt motivated since he woke, but he had not been depressed and had not wallowed. The highlight of the day so far had been the cold coffee, which slid down his throat and practically saw him reborn – before he crashed a few hours later.

His lectures were finished for the day, though, and he was now heading towards the library to pick up some books. It was the first day of spring; insects had begun to make their presence known, the weather made a coat look and feel uncomfortable (he, of course, had a coat on) and there was a distinct, pleasant smell all around, almost as if the earth was rewarding him for having hidden the sunlight for the past few months. The smell was somehow directly related to the heat, and he had been pondering this exact relationship for the past few minutes as he made his way from the lecture theatre towards the library. He paused, for some reason, and said to himself: ‘now is the equinox of the day. It hasn’t been a failure, nor has it been a wild success. In fact, it’s quite in the balance: it is completely up to me what happens from here. I simply have to decide.’

Ivan had a tendency to reflect in ways such as this: though often prone to sensationalising, he had an excellent eye for understanding how to break down a goal or ideal into smaller parts in order to achieve it, through careful planning. His downfall was the emotional – as logical as he was, when his reason became clouded by emotion his judgement would give rise to unexpected and unpredictable results. But here, Ivan was in control of his emotions: he decided that, though his day was neither here nor there, he was in thoroughly able to engage his ‘powers of observation’ in a meaningful way. It was as if he became a different person at times like this. He looked in all directions, registering all of the minute details: the grass was cut in a particular pattern, though the edges were not trimmed; he predicted the paths of people as they walked; judged the relations between different groups of students as they walked, assessing which subjects they took, whether they were late. Ivan had no idea what he looked like from the outside, but he seemed to squint very slightly as if he was literally seeing into the essence of things – when really he was opening his eyes to what was in front of him.

It was in this observational mood that he decided the rest of his day would hinge upon. Now that he had taken in all the colours, smells, sounds, relationships and predictions he could in the few seconds he had stood still (pretending to check his pockets for something important so as not to arouse suspicion), he reflected in upon himself. ‘So much rests upon the way one walks,’ he thought. The library was ahead, situated above a long series of steps with a square in front of it which acted as a social hub; sometimes there were even markets held there. A few benches lined it and there were always people milling about; it had four openings and each headed to a different part of the university. In short, it was the perfect place to ‘observe things’. Ivan had decided that he would delay his visit to the library by means of ‘observing things’ by walking very slowly across the library square. The question was: how should he walk across?

Often it is not a conscious choice; one’s gait simply mirrors their emotion. A slow, winding walk often belies a person lost in contemplation; a thorough, pointed walk is the signifier of someone on a mission and then there are those whose dejection trails them in a wake with their slow, plodding steps.

Today, however – in this situation, at this time, in this place – Ivan had all the control in the world. His mood was in no defined configuration and the day was his: ‘now, how should I walk, whilst I am observing? And where should I walk?’ He could walk either straight through, observing the people through at the heart of the square by walking right past them; he could walk to the left, which would mean less to observe, but it also meant that he would attract less attention to himself (he was quite aware of the oddity of his mood and current thinking, and was not completely set in his mind: nor was he sure that he was in the mood for others to observe him – his mood could just as easily swing in a negative direction, hanging in the balance as it was) – or he could walk straight into the library. (He would have to find a way back their eventually, as he really did need those books.) He was in the preliminary stages of his walk, on a path which lead onto the square at one of its corners, with two, low brown fences running parallel to each other sectioning off the pathway from the grass which variously bohemian students were adorning with their bodies, cigarettes and conversation.

As he set foot on the square, he continued to observe – that is, until something presented itself to him –overwhelmed him — which quite knocked him out of his meditation and made him quite subservient to it. His choice of ‘how’ to walk, and, indeed, where, had now been thrown back to his instincts. Not being able to take his eyes off it for more than a few seconds, he began to walk into the square.

She was beautiful.

Walk the first

He approached with wonder. He was barely conscious of his steps, his appearance, or anything else. His reason had been well and truly subjugated: nothing is better at throwing a young man off than a beautiful young woman. She was walking towards him, but if she paid him any attention he didn’t notice. She had her headphones in and was looking sultry. To him, she was positively seductive.

Though he didn’t notice, his gait portrayed a man who wasn’t in control of himself. He looked disjointed; unfocused. His mind was wavering and hovering over outrageous thoughts: he had well and truly been undone. He looked beside her; at her; to this side, to the other side; at his hands, at his feet. He tried to make eye contact but she was too busy being beautiful. He had been acting on instinct – or, rather, he wasn’t acting on instinct so much as he was acted upon by his instinct. Time seemed to slow down as she was in view — then surged forward after she was out of sight.

It was over in seconds, and they would never see one another again.

It wasn’t until he had passed her and walked straight into the library that he began to analyse what had happened.

‘I had no control whatsoever. I did exactly the opposite of what I planned to do. I was thrown off by the simplest things: soft lips, piercing eyes, a slight smile… finely shaped eyebrows, lustrous brunette hair…’ – and off he slipped into wonder once again. This is quite indicative of the constant battle between logic and emotion going in within all of us: Ivan simply happened to lose this time.

Though the lesson was there to be learnt, it was overwritten by thoughts of a girl he would probably never see again – and he was thus doomed to repeat it.

He continued to oscillate between remonstrating with himself for not doing what he said he would, and thinking about her delicate, charming features over and over again as he looked for the books. ‘PF19214… PF… oh, I wonder if she saw me? … PF1…’ the battle raged on inside his head, becoming more and more fragmentary. He eventually found the book and settled down in the library, on his own, to read it in isolation. His day faded into the abstract: the next day he had already forgotten about her, and the chance he missed.

Walk the second

She was beautiful, but he was not going to let that displace his observational mood. He saw her lips, he saw her eyes, he saw her eyes – their gaze met, and he looked away. He walked with confidence, but it was somehow infused with a sort of thoughtfulness: his mind was both everywhere and on the tiniest things, but only for a fleeting moment.

Ivan completely registered her, and was glad to have been in the presence of such a pretty girl; but all around him there were things beautiful, too. The warmth was particularly conducive to musing, and he began to study everyone else in the square. He was walking straight through the middle of the square, and both his gait and his face gave insight into his happiness. He saw a couple near the edge, holding hands, chatting. He wondered if he could see into their future: how long would they last? ‘Probably a year… No – but that is too sceptical, pessimistic. Who’s to say they won’t be together for longer? Look how tightly he’s holding on to her hand. It’s always a good sign when he is holding on to her hand.’ He smiled; if anyone saw him, they would not have thought him too odd – he simply looked at one with the world.

He was moving like a sort of traveller, most at home in his thoughts. He looked approachable, and very much was so. The beautiful girl had walked past him long ago, having turned behind her to look at him again. To her disappointment, he was not looking back.

Observing all that there was to be observed, he spotted a friend from his English class ahead. She was not only the sort of excellent philosophical soul who makes one question all that is around them, but she also provided excellent conversation. His observational mood alone pointed this out to him: had he not been paying attention to every detail, he would have missed her.

He continued walking on ahead and caught up with her. She was wearing a polkadot dress and it twirled as she turned to meet him, greeting him with an excellent, genuine smile. He replied in kind.

Their conversations were never dull, and never trite. He kept a smile for the rest of the day as they walked off, talking about literature, the state of the world today and how they were going to change it. And they walked together in inquisitive sync.

The third walk

‘I can act however I want: the world is mine.’

Ivan flared his nostrils, adjusted his step and focused. She was heading towards him – not past him. That is how he saw it. He kept his mind on how fast he was walking, how he came across – his gait reflected the thoughts within: a man in control walks like a man in control. Nothing is left to chance: no step is out of place. Nothing in his life is out of place.

They headed towards each other, each walking with perfect execution: she swayed her hips with ease – not too much so as to look arrogant, but she was confident in herself – he, too, allowed his shoulders to move and his hands moved with a fluid motion just slightly in front and slightly behind him as he walked. A smile was (barely) visible (because it was well hidden) in the corners of both of their mouths.

They saw the other; in a fraction of a second they both acknowledged the other as an equal. They were interested and they were going to let it be known, if such a thing was possible. Ivan kept his observational mind-set, but he kept it focused on her. He was not in awe – he was studying her. He saw her simple, flat shoes; he traced her upwards; her skin-tight jeans, her loose, dark top revealing the slightest hint of her firm midriff; her face was sat in its glorious poise, her lips… ‘her lips…’ he reminded himself, almost lapsing into awe but bringing himself round again. Her eyes sparkled – they could easily have pierced right through him, but he met them with an impassioned gaze of his own.

In her hand was a piece of paper which, as they were almost side-by-side, heading in opposite directions, flew out of her hand – either through sheer luck or because she subconsciously loosed her grip on it whilst he anticipated being so close to him. He knew this was his chance. He fairly pounced on the piece of paper as if it really stood for the opportunity itself (though in reality he picked it up with grace), smiling to her as he handed it to her.

He had smuggled a look at its contents and saw that it was a map: she was new, and was looking for a building a long way in the direction he had been heading from. ‘Would you like me to show you the way?’

She smiled, after thanking him politely. He read her face as she answered, ‘Really? That would be so helpful!’

He turned and headed back in the opposite direction, standing close to her. It was a mutual invasion of private space – they seemed to unite as if they had known each other years. ‘How odd it is,’ Ivan thought; ‘had we been walking in opposite directions, we would have passed with a wide birth so as not to seem rude – but here we are, walking so that our hands almost touch. What a difference a walk makes.’

Ivan continued to observe, continued to think and continued to talk to the girl, whose name turned out to be Lily. The further they walked, the slower their pace became – they didn’t want to separate. All this was unspoken. At times he glanced at the hand closest to him and dreamt about holding it, or at least brushing past it. Her glorious perfume began to wash over him and he could almost feel himself dropping out of control of his own actions. Everyone they passed gave them a look – they were quite a striking couple.

‘Everyone’s looking at it us,’ Lily remarked (she was observant too).

Ivan turned away from her as he heard this, trying to conceal the fantastic smile that had taken hold of him. ‘Oh, they must think we’re a couple.’

‘Do you think so?’ she replied, amused at the idea. ‘Well, let’s see what they think of this…’ Lily inched her petite fingers towards his and they interlinked. They had only met minutes ago and now they were walking hand in hand.

A surge ran up Ivan’s spine, culminating in the greatest smile at his lips. He may have accidentally squeezed her hand a little in his joy, and she may have let out a little squeal of excitement in return.

They continued to walk onwards, simply lapping up the atmosphere and the majesty of the moment. Lily never went to where she was headed; they simply walked without checking the time, until the afternoon gave way to early evening, to the twilight, and the warmth met the lighting in a wonderful contrast, as the earth was blanketed in a romantic ambiance. Lily’s eyes and Ivan’s smile stood out, made all the brighter by the other.

They continued to walk until no one was around, continuing to hold the other’s hands. They never asked where she was from, or where she was headed, or even why she was there. They only stopped once, looking at the sun as it inched its way lower, behind the horizon: at the right moment Ivan couldn’t resist placing a soft kiss on her cheek. His observations had given way to impulse, and his kiss gave way to a profound smile on her behalf.

They linked hands once again, and carried on walking.

(Source: lukelabern.com)

I forgot to inform all of my tumblr followers…

That I am getting published. I think I at least owe you that. Check out this link to find out more, and see all my latest works.

Peace.

Nothing In-between (short story)

They have it wrong. Those people who define a person by just one characteristic don’t know anything at all. ‘He’s evil’; ‘she’s nice’; ‘he’s a bore’ – wrong. All wrong. Fluctuation, variation, contradiction – that is what defines a man. I can think of nothing more human than to follow the greatest mistake of your life with an utterly sublime action. It doesn’t make up for it – it’s not a game of making up – it’s just the way things are. The best men are also capable of being the worst. The worst are loved just like the best. Everyone in-between might have a higher frequency of poor or excellent action, but no one exclusively resides in one sphere. If you tell me you’ve found the greatest man to have ever lived, and that he can do no wrong – I’ll tell you to wake up.

In fact, it’s not about the actions themselves. It never has been. There’s something else that runs in the blood – the actions are the end result of a long and complicated chain series of events – it’s what’s in the blood that matters. What’s in the blood? Passion. Energy: resolution: drive: attitude: talent: intuition. The only difference between two men of equal height, of equal weight and equal looks is their psychological disposition. And this is not something that can be worked on, tampered with or reduced – this is the man.  

Some call it the ‘soul’, but it’s all the same thing: the same thought that greets them in the morning when they awaken and the same thing that soothes or stimulates them before they sleep. A man’s passion is the same thing that takes his moments of happiness to the heights of ecstasy and with exactly the same intensity turns momentary sadness into the dark recesses of depression, of oblivion. It works in these two ways, and in every other one of the infinitesimal directions a man can go in: it allows a man to work as hard as it allows him to embrace hedonism. It allows him to love with as much passion as he hates, and it either resides in indifference most of the time (which is the majority of humanity – for this is perhaps the only way society could function) or, in certain passionate creatures, it drives them to despair, madness, fury and to heaven… and for these beings life is lived one day at a time, for the intensity of existence is quite something – by turns draining them and at others making them want to drink in life faster than it can be procured. These creatures could die at any given time and still be said ‘to have lived’ – much more than most.

The truly passionate man speaks in the language of the eyes: a piercing glance can shoot a dagger through another and make them question their life – all without a word. A gaze can criticise or compliment. They speak in the language of the sensual, the speechless, the philosophical. This world is never enough: all possible worlds are more important than this one. It’s not about what has been, it’s about what could be – even if it doesn’t happen. The passionate man lives in the present – this is his gift and his curse. Most revel in their fondest memories or hope wistfully for what’s in the future, but the passionate man know that each second is the past, the present and the future all at once: only when this is realised can life be lived as if it was a trail of explosive – a flame racing along a fuse.

These passionate beings barely know of their impact – it takes constant reminders from the kindest and most noble of souls to stay by their side and tie them down to the earth so that they don’t float away – because they would, if they had no other ties to the rest of humanity. All they are aware of is the pure intensity of their existence: colours are always vivid, the darkness is always oblivion; the quiet is always inspirational and they are never at half-speed: always one or the other. Contemplative or unstoppable.

The emotional spectrum is a palette with which they paint their life: each emotion has its space, its time and its place. People often say ‘life is short’, but it is not: it is exactly the right length. Mortality lurks in the background: at times it is horrifying, terrifying – and at others it is as the sun: finite and quite necessary for life: inspirational. Any man who claims to want to live forever is a liar, or a fool – it is precisely the fact that we are aware of our own death that life is as beautiful as it is. All moments of sorrow are cured with the cathartic knowledge that one day – sooner or later – sorrow won’t even be an option, for existence will come to nil and consciousness will stop. Sorrow is intensity: sorrow is beautiful: sorrow is to be alive, and thus sorrow is ecstasy.

To define a person by one confused characteristic is to miss all of this: to describe a man in terms of his intensity is a far greatest measure of his true essence.  His passion is the factor behind all of his characteristics. It defines the way he loves, the way he hates, the way he works, the way he rests, the way he dreams, the way he fails and succeeds, the way he overcomes adversity and the way he acts when he is triumphant – whether he seeks more, or rests on his laurels. It is the way he embraces or fears life – and the same of his death. It defines how he is remembered; it defines all he could have been, and the way in which he leaves his mark on the world.

The most obvious factors that intensity influences are love and hate. And it is often by these that people mistakenly define a man, clinging to only one or the other – they fail to notice that the two are proportionately linked and present in all men.

Most men will love with what they think is unutterable intensity: and perhaps they do. Certainly, they do to the extent that they are capable. I have no doubt that most – if not all – love with all of their being. When they cry, they are pouring forth all of the sorrow, anguish, anxiety and emotion they are capable of: they cry like a mortal who knows that they can only love a very small, finite number of people, and they cry as if the world was watching. But this is not to say that all loves – or lovers — are equal. This is significant: because these people (most people) hate with as much intensity as they love. On reflection, they might think ‘I am not a very hateful person. I get annoyed, and I have my off days’ – and they are right. They are not very hateful – they do not burn with utter disdain; it is temperate and, if not sensible, it is not overwhelming. Of course, at times, they will burn with hate – but this is not often. But this is directly related to the way they love: if they do not hate very much, in contrast to those who do hate very much, they also do not love verymuch.

But a word on ‘the fine line between love and hate’. What about those souls who seem full of nothing but hatred? I say that they both love and hate, even when all that appears is malice and apathy: their hate is a product of their spurned love. Their love that their parents spurned, their love of life, their love of the self – completely inverted. Love and hate are the same emotion folded back on itself. That their behaviour shows only hate only proves that, given the right circumstances, they could have been a sensitive and equally passionate being – but it may simply be the case that the right circumstances may never have been possible: this does not change the fact that they were capable of it. Hate is the absence of fulfilled love; it is the emotion that results from a vacuum where an object to love could be, but isn’t.

But this is the rare case, the man who appears to be purely hateful: there is another category (equally rare) who fall neither under the first category which most men do, nor are they (apparently) the slave of one emotion: these are the truly passionate men, who feels the conflict of life and enjoy its spoils each and every day. They love with inimitable intensity, and they hate with the same energetic passion. Their hate, however, stems from an utter dissatisfaction: they are able to see the true nature of things. Even in the man they hate, they see their potential and wish for it to be so – it is because of this that they feel such hate. They hate the way things have turned out, and they hate that humanity does not live up to its ideals. It is because of this intensity that they love few – for very few are able to live up to their potential, or are lucky enough to be truly beneficent or brilliant – and are sceptical of most. This is why value terms are unhelpful: is the passionate man good for loving with such intensity, or a menace for casting such a harsh eye on so many? There can be no place for these terms.

But though we know these people exist – in theory – it is still the case that others define them by either their outward visage of love or hate. This is an unfortunate error: it is clearly a case of only half of the picture being visible. The man who storms when he walks, who quivers with passion in his speech, who looks as if he commands death with his gaze has an exact reflection of himself that is unseen by most – if not all. The public persona, the man in the daylight, the outgoing, the profane, the social, the bludgeoning aspect of his manner has an exact inversion: the isolated existence of the human being in the night time; introverted, the ambient, thoughtful, philosophical: the calm.

The violent has its impact in the brutality with which it pierces the tranquil: the two are mirrors of one another. It is far too easy to throw descriptions away in the course of conversation, with more or less lucidity and to forget the issue, having labelled it. It may, of course, be true that ‘he is very critical’: but this is only half of the picture. Whoever has labelled him thus has forgotten to add that ‘he loves with as much passion as he criticises’. This is the fatal error. Whatever is true of one part of his life is equally true of another.

The stoic is cautious and reserves his emotion: he does not dislike many. He tolerates many and likes as many as he dislikes. Those he does like appreciate him and would hate to live without him, but they understand his limits and what he is capable of – some of the most stable, helpful and beautiful people fall under this category. He is restrained and he is aware – or perhaps he is simply insensitive to all that life is capable of offering – perhaps he does not want to embrace his passionate side: perhaps this is a valuable thing for him to do. It is this sort of person who can, perhaps, add, or change, his character: he can expand his horizons, and through the fragile and dangerous building of trust with others, he can begin to taste the fruit of life – if and when he allows his passion to seep out.

The passionate man is afire and ablaze: he dislikes, or is sceptical about, most. His passion defines his relationships: those he likes, he loves: he clutches them to his chest and would die for them – he would come to their aid no matter what, and feels pangs of terror when they are in trouble; he rejoices in their happiness. He shares all that he has with them, and often speaks all that is on his mind, entering into a trance, only realising what he has said minutes after he has awakened from his trance having revealed all that was weighing upon him. He speaks too quickly, when he begins – he inundates, his floods, he bursts his limits – he cannot be contained. At risk of drowning others, he can only secure and support a very limited amount of others with him: the rest are at risk from his torrents of passion – but those he does take with him – those who he cherishes, adores and protects – have the best of both worlds… for the passionate man is as dangerous when he is depressed as he is inspirational when he is healthy. The passionate man is the ideal, and the impossible – he is all that man could be, but simultaneously is contradictory to maintain. He is the romantic: the candle lit at both ends. For him, pleasure is ecstasy and pain is torment: love is his ecstasy, and his self-acknowledged hatred is painful to all, especially himself – there is nothing in-between: only passion, intensity, and drive. But how – or why — do I say all of this, you ask?

Because, for better or worse, I am such a one…

Momentum (short story)

Sometimes it takes a disproportionate amount of force to move just a small object in a short period of time. Often it will not even be requested, and we’d rather simply wait it out and grind through, eventually getting what we want. Sometimes, though, things happen that are simply momentous, life changing and bear down on upon us with such incredible weight that by the time we have closed our eyes we’re halfway down the path we, only seconds ago, wished to slowly embark on.

It seems to be a fact of life that anything we experience – be it love, beauty, peace, comfort, happiness – is necessarily preceded by its antagonist: hate, ugliness, strife, discomfort, depression. It cannot be denied – and it is, of course, inevitable: even a kiss would lose its lustre if it was repeated day after day with no hardship to juxtapose against it. Accepting such facts as these, it was during the best month of my life that I began to muse on these things more at length.

In my many conversations with that beacon of hope – my muse, if you like – amongst various topics of varying levels of absurdity or philosophic import, I happened to riff on the idea: ‘It’s almost as if I’m running out of things to do,’ I said, thoughtfully. I was half-depressed at the idea. She laughed – no, she giggled, in her fantastic way – and told me not to get depressed during such a wonderful phase.

‘Honestly,’ I continued, ‘this isn’t sustainable. I can’t physically keep up with it all – it’s impossible to be this happy for this long; this productive, this content – life simply cannot be this close to my dreams.’ I paused as I struck on something genuinely worrying: ‘I can’t imagine anything worse than actually achieving my dreams.’ She looked at me as if I was crazy (as she often did, but in a loving way).

‘What’s left when we reach our goals? We cannot simply make new ones. Well, of course we can – but they’re not the same. The dreams I’ve had for this long, for so many years – if –‘

‘—When—‘ she chirped in, with her unstoppable optimism and muse-like effect, cooling my nerves all over and making me smile.

‘When,’ I resumed, smiling, ‘I achieve my goal – the goal – what then? I cannot simply conjure up a new lifelong dream. Lifelong dreams are exactly that: life-long. I will have to make them up on the spot.’ I sighed.

‘You mustn’t get depressed!’ she repeated. That was often her job: to stop me from overthinking myself into the ground. Too much thinking, like anything else, is counterproductive and gratuitous.

‘You’re right. I won’t. It’s just… I have the drive, but I don’t necessarily have infinitesimal destinations that I want to get to. But I suppose I am getting a head of myself.’ She looked at me as if to say, ‘Just a little.’

As with any conversation I had with her, it was both the culmination of a lot of my thinking and the inspiration for different trains of thought – for both of us. This conversation occurred about half way through the month in question, and I managed to bury it just beneath the surface in the following fortnight. I had so many potent, almost magical thoughts swimming around that it became impossible to keep track of it. So, so great was the contrast this period had with my depressive episodes that I could fashion a smile out of thin air whenever the thought crossed my mind: in the middle of streets, in the middle of conversations — perhaps even in the middle of my sleep. But it was to return, much like a tide does, in an inevitable and rhythmic fashion, continually lapping and encroaching towards my comfortable shelter.

Eventually, I was displaced, and after two days I can barely remember, I found myself in a poorly-lit room with the light of a computer screen mesmerising and irritating me, chastising myself almost. All that I remembered of the two days beforehand was a lack of sleep. I remembered that my mind has begun to almost dissociate: where wit had once been, came only irritability and a triteness of expression. The quick and challenging intellect that had been the foundation of the month before had become slowed almost to a stop, and I could perform only the most mechanical of tasks with minimum efficacy. Yes: I can barely remember those two days, somewhat in a state somewhat between waking and dreaming – but I must recount them at a later date…

So, there I was: unaware of how long exactly, but certainly numbering well into the hours, sitting in a room listless, indolent, pointlessly. The very fact that I was in darkness paid testament to the lack of motivation I had: the lights were only across the room. I was in that intoxicated state of angst where to suffer in a very slight way – such as the strain of the eye to face a bright screen in a dark room – was just enough of annoyance to allow one to feel sorry for oneself. And yet there was no pain to be had, nor even any reason for it. This was simply a necessitated lull after such a sustained and intense high. I was not miserable, nor bitter – I accepted that it was necessary. Still, however, despite my best intentions, I became one with the mood and succumbed to the lethargic perfume of the moment.

Of course, what follows hours of doing nothing – no physical strain, no intellectual breakthroughs, and no emotional toil – but insomnia? As surely as the seasons segue into one another, an unproductive and wasted day gives rise to a similar night. As surely as such a lack of motivation followed from such a month-long surge, wanting something too much always yields negative results. There is certainly something to be said for trying to lie to yourself: if one really, truly, desperately wants something, they could do worse than accept that it is unlikely that it will occur, and (whilst pretending not to care) casually make motions towards it… Of course, such a method is not applicable in many situations – especially not in regards to lifelong dreams – but as a combatant to insomnia, it is among the best I have found.

However, that night, I was soundly defeated. Even after so little sleep the days before, I somehow managed to escape the clutches of the cousin of death. I made up for it by sleeping in a little late, and naturally felt all the worse for having wasted more of my day. Upon waking, I resolved that I wouldn’t try to fight the lack of energy that weighed down every limb: I would simply try to ride the waves of the tide that was now well and truly dictating my existence.

I can hardly describe this feeling: it is beyond words simply because it is beneath them. How can one describe the feeling of lugging one’s limbs around with the express wish of its being night time, and thus time to enter unconsciousness? It is as if one is a gambling addict, where sleep is the lottery to be played, the day wasted is the wager, and the prize is waking up the next day with any motivation whatsoever. As always, it was the juxtaposition between the stellar month before hand and mundane, dreary nature of the current period that was weighing me down. To be so close to one’s perfect existence and to have to come to such a low can, as I have said, barely be described. It is merely a lack.

I had been sprinting up a steep incline – higher than I’d ever known – and I had reached the peak. I now found myself at the trough that followed it (having little recollection of the descent) with no apparent way of escaping it other than to slowly, methodically, painfully ascend the next incline.

These were the thoughts I had; and I spent a lot longer thinking about them than before. My mind was no longer racing, it was moving at a much slower pace. The vigour and passion of my life was on hold, it seemed to me. I thought more methodically, perhaps, but by the same token these thoughts became cumbersome to me: I wanted to get back to the month I had just had. If I was trying to persuade someone who had the choice of whether to exist or not, I would have described to him the month I had had.

So it was that I was sitting at a table conversing with friends in idle chit-chat, half-musing on my own situation and taking part in the conversation with listless input when a piece of news punctured through.

An old school friend had died earlier that day. He was younger than me by a few months. Seeing those words… My blood ran cold – I’m quite sure it stopped, briefly –my veins solidified and my blood ran backwards, I’m sure of it. My expression dropped, and I felt numb. I left the room and sought isolation. A mirror was my first port of call, and all I could do was repeat various rhetorical questions to myself. What? Really? Surely, this is a cosmic joke?

I will not hammer the point home: I had not spoken to him in many years, but I had spent two years seeing him most days of the week and had had various conversations with him. His image was fresh in my mind – it still is now: I could see his mannerisms, his expressions, his frame, his sense of humour, and his harmless nature. What I couldn’t conceive of was the fact that he was no longer alive. He had been killed momentum – I will leave it by that, for the details are unnecessary – and it had been swift. Setting out for a journey, who knows what he thought? Probably the trivialities any of us would, like what’s for dinner this evening? But no: he would not return. The last time I’d seen him, would be the last time for eternity. Never again would I see him.

Such a piercing feeling, I can barely retrace – it stings and paralyses me now. The first thought I had was – I’ll wake up soon – what a horrid dream. Whilst clichés are my most detested foe, this really was what I thought: it seems the human mind is physically incapable of accepting certain changes. This is what bereavement is: the utterly slow process wherein after days of asking yourself, When will I wake up?, your psyche finally realises that you’ve been awake the whole time, and reality now resembles a nightmare that little bit more.

I cannot even begin to attempt to empathise with closer friends and family: out of respect I would not even dream of it. It affected me with such a heavy blow that I scarcely knew who I was for quite some time. I merely bow down and tremble at the thought that all of this is necessary, and inevitable.

But to the point of all this: what is the correct reaction? Such horror I can still taste, its impression having left an indelible mark on my mind and on my personality that I shall never want to scratch away – nor would I want to – for I feel that I have endured and understood life more than I did in that month hence. That I am yet to feel such sorrow hitting closer to home is both a gift and a curse: I cannot bear to muse on it any longer, here.

All that I know is that my indolence was torn out of me – I dare say that I will never succumb to such a feeling ever again. I will drag my bones from whichever resting place they wish to move and I will curse any inertia with the full force of my being, and I will achieve whatever it is that I must do.

Insomnia? What was that? But a time to work harder. What was a lack of motivation? A chance to gain motivation. The less I have, the more I have to gain. No, I could not dare wallow: I had no right to. For a short period I became intensely angry: I was accosted by someone in a menial position of authority who spoke down to me – usually I would have borne a grudge, but the contrast – for it is always via contrast – between the triviality of being wronged in such a way with such a grave shadow hanging over me made it impossible to wish her ill or to spend any longer on such topics.

No: I had been at the trough, at the lowest ebb: stationary, slow, and languid. But sometimes it takes the by-product of a disproportionate force to move a small object with unprecedented speed. And here, I find myself cherishing each second as if it was a lifetime of its own: where the joy of each moment is followed by heartbreak – and then it repeats, like a dynamo – always pushing me forward, always up, always towards the next incline. And I am not a fool: I know that there will be other troughs – for this is a necessity – but I can promise this much: I will plummet with such force through each decline that I will, upon opening my eyes, be halfway into the next incline and headed towards the future with impossible speed and indefatigable resolve. I shall embrace momentum, and it shall lead me on: faster, more thoroughly, and more passionately than ever before. I owe him – I owe myself – I owe humanity that much. All of this I wished to say tell my muse – to inspire her. I worded it like this:

The only error I could possibly make in life would be to slow down.

R.I.P.
(Rest in Peace  – not in life)

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“Fragments of Fidelty” (story)

A story written in twenty-ish minutes: a sample of the work you can find at my website. I’ll be posting a very small sample of the works on there — a single click and you’ll find my entire catalogue, which I’m back-posting from 2009 all the way to today.

* * *

The question was… what exactly was she? Which of the various words in this sphere came closest to describing it? Alluring? Tempting? Enchanting? These words are too simplistic. Her petite form somehow transcended stereotyping. Not too thin, no: somehow she was diminutive and still had curves which appeal to that centre of lust in a man, the same lines which draw a man from intelligence to brutishness, from sensible to the sensual, from moral to immoral.

But at this time he was flirting with the amoral. With no God to secure it for him, he couldn’t see any way of declaring right from wrong. Of course, he remembered what it was like to know instinctively what was wrong: he still did. But something was overriding it. There was a lingering pain, a philosophical dissatisfaction: a sense of anger was coursing through him.

Double thrills slithered from his fingertips to his cortex as he traced that shape: like the onset of a heavy narcotic a cloud thickened, descended and then lifted as his musings on morality – of how he had been wronged – gave way and precipitated carnal pleasure. Was that a slight quiver? Was it her, or him? Both? Slowly tracing those curves, he balanced that fine line that most men cannot: thinking whilst acting.

This was never to be a blunt, gratuitous affair: there would be nothing simple, nothing unintelligent, nothing bland: this was complex; it was a game, but the rules were being written at every second. Only to be broken seconds later. There was nothing that couldn’t happen – apart from the situation itself. The two were not meant to be together. If anyone discovered that this had happened, the repercussions would be severe, damning and in no way pleasurable.

Such facts make the temptation all the more intense. No one would ever know. Still tracing; time was beginning to blur. Hot, delicate breath found its way to his neck. She bit her lip. Such an act was unspeakable – impossible to translate. It said so many things. It defined the situation and encapsulated the moment. The image still lingers in his mind’s eye.

‘Would you like to?’ it suggested. ‘You can.’

His eyes flashed, lit up: he studied her. Methodically, slowly. His glance said, ‘Come closer.’

She did.

Looking was far more thrilling. She laid across him, laying her head on a pillow to his side and draping herself across him: there were no conjugal ties between them, but it somehow made it all the sweeter. He wanted this to carry on forever – her look, the quick smile on her lips, suggested the same – but it was the brevity of the event that made it so enthralling. This might not ever happen again; this was life at its finest. No guarantees, no guidance, no repeats.

In between the glances of this half-intellectual, half-sensual game between them, the intensity of the situation was punctuated with thoughts. Why was he in this situation in the first place? Why was she? There had been a severe wrong-doing some months ago: without it he wouldn’t have been in there. He had already half-committed to something quite terrible, by his own moral code. But it was only made possible by his own moral edifice being shattered in so thorough a way that he really believed in amorality. He lived it; he breathed it; he touched it: he had it – her – lying on his lap.

There was no need to say a word, no need for any motions of the hand, no need to try: this was as natural a thing as they had ever experienced. The game of pairing two of the opposite sex is a statistical one which has some interesting questions attached to it, but these were quite literally out of the question: such a symbiosis and meshing of moods, minds and bodies could hardly be imagined.

Never had he been in a situation where to speak would have been to break the mood: this was pure, unabated, thick sexual tension. It was only a matter of time.

But there was pre-defined time to the association: they moved to a different room, one more comfortable, with a larger, cushioned plane with which to rest themselves. There had been quite abstruse moments of temptation earlier – it took all of his will-power to resist and to pull away, and absolutely no effort on her behalf to induce them: she simply had to be. And yet it was not a matter of objectification: the fact that their personalities worked so easily in tandem had been long established – and yet they barely spoke. They only spoke trivialities, as if to distract themselves from the air laden with pheromone and suggestion.

Here they were, then: she was faced away from him, on one side, and he on the other. What exactly was she? She was exquisite, physically: he had never quite seen such a blend of the petite and the irresistible. He did not like to resort to bland, debased terms – but he was certainly thinking debauched thoughts: there was no escaping it. It was made all the more tempting by the fact that she thought the same of him, or something like it: the reason didn’t matter, but the facts were undeniable. Such attraction is a rare thing: neither was new to such feelings, but the sheer ease and intensity was novel to both of them.

What was she? She was a temple of mental strength, too: there was something hard not to adore in the things she had undergone, and yet never mentioned, save a few adornments that weighed heavily with emotional significance. Only a few people knew this about her, but he was one of the few: and he was sure that no one alive felt as strongly as he did about her: only he knew how to decipher certain things written in her personality. No one else could, no one else will: and he knew that, with so many layers of unspeakable emotions, there was only one way with which to express these things.

But, as he simultaneously mused on this weighty thought and admired her beauty – her delicate, graceful and tempting shape — from behind, somehow, somehow, his amorality dissolved in the moment. The very reason he could appreciate her like no one else could was the very reason he couldn’t do what felt so natural. She was not his: he was someone else’s. And even though this fact was the very reason he dreamed of amorality (partly to justify the wrong done to him, partly so that he could do what he wished so thoroughly to do then), he remained true to his character.

It is true: one cannot escape one’s character. One may appear to change temporarily, but one will always, always, return to themselves given enough time.

It did not happen, that day, though he suffered as if it did. They were unable to speak for a long period of time afterwards: the very time they could have discussed those vivid moments and deciphered them was stolen from them. This, no doubt, etched the memory even deeper into both of them.

But this event was significant in other ways: he would have to suffer for his putting himself in this position. Even though he steeled himself in the end and found within him a firmer moral resolve than he even knew he had, he was spurned by many: by that person who had wronged him so thoroughly, who had cut him so deeply: by those closest to him; he toiled in vain ‘do the right thing’, but it took many months of brutal self-doubt to realise that the right thing to do would have been to stick firmly to his moral intuition in the first place: that way, things would have been different. He could have spend as long as he wanted with she who tempted him so tantalisingly, and all without the pang of remorse he was forced to endure for long afterwards.

But the memory is not a bitter one: for her, who knows how poignant it remains? Perhaps it lies dormant within her, lying under the sediment of other, less important meetings. For him, it is still a vital moment: he learnt the nature of true temptation and of his own resolve. He strayed on both sides of morality that day and is all the wiser for it. Certainly, a long time has passed since then: but its importance cannot be overlooked. Though it may be covered in many layers of dust, a bright gem still shines as intensely as before – as brightly as his eyes did – when the right light is shone upon it.

Whether she will remain a temptation in memory, or in waiting, is a further question that lingers long in his mind. But he knows one thing for certain, that perhaps she, too, now knows: that he sees something in her that no one can or ever will do, and that he risked everything just for a chance to tell her.

I ask of the helpful souls…

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The Climb (short story)

How do you describe a man with words when, in isolation, he only communicates with his eyes? His expressions really are just that – the only outward sign of such heavy thinking that most men cannot stand to entertain it. Indeed, even those who do face such issues head on must take respite; on their way to the mountain top they must rest in uncomfortable nooks, aware of the biting cold outside; the perilous drop: only sleep can fool them into thinking they are not in the ascent. Steadily, they must abandon all that they thought they would need: their equipment is shed slowly, like a snake’s skin. Even those items he thought impossible to discard will be: eventually he is has no rucksack, no medication, no food and no clothes: he sees the summit of the mountain, but the energy with which he started has long since been drained. All that remains is something akin to hope, but not so simple: it is resolve, a gritty perseverance. There is romance in whatever it is, but it is not beautiful; it is something like world-weariness; it is the need to drink the draught of truth. He must feel it pass his lips and warm him from the inside, and then feel it chill his blood and shoot lightning through his veins. He must drink it, even if from a poisoned chalice. At the summit lies the truth: a small fountain – he never imagined it so small – moving with the hyponotic motion of water in the air, into the sky and tricking back down again – its colour cannot be described: it is the prism of all colours the moment before they intertwine into white: it is all. But he has not yet made it there: he can only see it. How he longs to taste it – but he can only see it. He is now crawling towards it. His nails are bleeding and the gravel of the path is replacing his skin. But what is pain to truth? It is the very fuel required to get there. The sound of a body hauling itself in slow, steady, rhythmic movements towards a goal cuts through the low whistling of the wind, though he has now pierced the clouds and this is the only noise. Only the stony path below him can read his expression – the energy required to look towards the goal is a waste of the energy needed to get there. His eyes are shut now, and all he has is faith. But faith is only self-belief. No one is guiding him, no one is aiding him, no one will save him: he will die here. The mountain will be his resting place, that is for certain. The only contingency is whether he tastes the truth and knows what all men seek before he passes away, or if he is to become one of many that have tried and failed. Not many make it this far, but his faith is strong: most begin their journey to the top of the mountain begrudgingly, and proportionately do not come close: he passed many skeletons on the way. He cannot see any here. He is now at the top. He is a short distance away from that pool: all he has to do is grind forward and fall headlong into it; perhaps it is like a volcano, or a dream, or like a vapour: the multiplicity of colours alone hints at something no man has ever known before. But his pace has slowed nearly to the point of stopping. Still, however, he continues: he reflects on all of his life previous, and whilst some moments are so vivid as to make his blood boil and to allow him to pick up his speed, he is overcome by the sheer amount of time that he has spent, and cannot remember: where did it all go? Too late for that now: he is so close. He tilts his head up: it is there, waiting. One final propulsion, one last rake against the stones with his body and he will be there. But his body has given up: it cannot take any more; not in life. It is time to make the ultimate sacrifice. He pauses briefly – a lifetime, and an instant – and for the first time during the ascent, lets out a sound. What word he says, I do not know: I have never heard it before. Simultaneously, with both hands he pushes himself off the ground and forward: he plunges deep into the pool. As he sinks in the concentrated soup of dreams, he asphyxiates. No man can survive what is inside there: it is not for the living. Within seconds he has perished, and all his gone: the identity dissolves along with the material. His present fades into the past. But why could he not endure that plunge, if he made it there? How can this be justified, acceptable, possible? All that pain for what: death? Why would the man choose to enter on to that journey if the climax was really an anti-climax? Who would begin such fatal endeavours?

The answer, dear reader, is all of us: that mountain is called life.

But do not despair: whilst some may wish that they had never begun the ascent, and dread the moment where they are forced to quit, answer me this: was that man’s final moments, where he believed he was to discover the untapped secrets of humanity (of the brain, of God, of love, of language, of nature, of the universe, of science, of art, etc.), not pure ecstasy? And did he not often have a hardy smile on his face, pleased with his progress, looking forward to the future? Did he not enjoy his purpose: to ascend? Did the wounds not spur him on? Every time he stumbled, did he not lick his lips at the prospect of becoming stronger and steeling himself, so that he would not fall next time? Though he knew not what was at the top of the mountain, did he not both push forward with ceaseless intensity, still finding time to linger at the sublime views along the way?

Whilst he spoke no words until that final moment, I believe we can say this, with certainty: though the man never tasted the truth in its purest form – and undoubtedly felt those blows he suffered in ascension – if he had the chance, he would do it all over again.

Mortality is both the most terrifying prospect and the one universal truth that all religions, all men, all thinkers, accept: we will be torn from this life eventually, whether at the bottom, or the top.

So we might as well make the most of the climb.