Sunday, 22 February 2009

An Unfinished Story Of Lust And Sorrow*

They lay down in bed for hours. He was sober – for once. She was high – on his kisses and the smell of his scent. From the window of his room, she could see a vast colorless sky – contrasting the bed sheet he had wrapped her with. He whispered many words in her ear – some of which she understood, others she had no idea what they meant. But she did not care. His caresses were what mattered. She was longing for his lips to touch hers. She was longing for his hands across her skin… Until he said the words that triggered her brain muscles. He was talking about lust. He was talking about sorrow. “Can’t you see?”, he said “both come from one origin. Both put you in the same state of sentiment. Both make you feel exactly the same emotions. They go back to one root. One essence”. What is this link – she thought – how could he be this confident about it? What had he been through? To think that sorrow and lust are nothing but one. To think that they are like fire and ice. Extremely opposite and yet, once they touch your skin – your body generates one reaction, same reaction, to both.

She liked what she was hearing. It has been a while, since she felt attracted to a mind, and not merely a body. She laid there – thoughts in motion – thinking about the flow of events that brought this man to her life. It has been no more than few days, and she already feels attached to him. Her body lies there, begging to be touched. Her mind wanders between the walls of the room – refusing to relax. Her mind is eager for his words now. She desperately seeks refuge in his statements; his late night statements of philosophy and dreams. She could stay in his bed forever. She could listen to him speak all night.

Is this real? – she thought – or am I dreaming again, and picturing what I would like my life to look like, what I would like to hear, what I would like to feel? How can I know that this is not happening in my mind only? How can I know that my mind is not coloring the facts, embellishing them, to make them perfectly suit my desires – perfectly feed my lust? She has been drifting between reality and illusions lately. She has been living in her own built state of mind. How can she make sure this is existent? Is he another figment of her intellect? Is she picturing this? Making up a desired outcome of an endured life of nothingness… The reality is, she will never be able to tell. There is more to it than lust and sorrow. There is flesh, lying beside her. There is a circumstance, she could never decipher – because she is not there, as much as she longs to be. She is not.

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