Yves Montague
The morning sun shines onto my numb face, trying to warm my heart I have so desperately frozen in time and space. Akiva is impatiently trying to get me to walk faster but even if I wanted to I wouldnt know If it would be possible. My body doesn't feel like mine, it feels like a marionette of my common sense, my mind says to deny my feelings and forget everything, but since when did it make sense for me to listen to my mind. My mind has always been a traitor that convinces you of something that will never feel right.
I have never felt so tired, my body feels on the age of death. The wish of death. My heart feels like it is on the edge of hopelessness while strangely still having too much hope. I was kidding myself when I felt hope. Deep, Deep down I did feel hope but that hope was shattered again and again. It was as frail as a flower that is slowly withering.
I would commit a murder if it would make me forget yesterday. I would do anything to feel like myself again.
I take a deep breath, swallow my tears, fears and sadness and quicken the pace I am walking in. Akiva smiles. My head hurts, it pounds on it's doors as if my mind is trying to escape his ever-lasting prison. Just like my heart will always beat in it's cage.
We arrive at the brilliant structure of the Le louvre, my eyes feel dry while looking at it, it moves me, the brilliance of the building itself, the attention to detail, how many people must have given this their time and expertise to make this. The grandiose building looks like a work of art itself. It's truly amazing, It's as if you are about to be welcomed into a completely different world. A world without emotions but only beauty. Maybe this will help me forget.
Akiva spots Cyril, I must say I spotted him already but I did not have the energy nor nerve to approach him. I wish I didn't have to, I wish we would stay there, looking at eachother for the rest of our lives, loving eachother from a distance, a heartbreaking unobtaining love. The whole world would go on and we would stay there, in the heat and cold of the seasons, the rain of our hearts, the coldness of the hopelessness. The only thing keeping me warm would be cruel fire in my heart consuming my mind and body, burning down my common sense, my life and my hope. We would love eachother, admiring eachother but not having the weight of words, of emotions. We would perhaps be happy maybe in melancholic longing but happier than we are now.
Émile hugs Akiva, quite surprisingly, and after that he hugs me. Such a kind gesture, though it feels like I am suffocating. It feels strange, the embrace of this men I have hated with all my being while knowing he is a good men, while knowing him from my childhood. While knowing he would deserve the world. But he does not deserve Cyril and he does not deserve to get his heart broken either. Cyril embraces me and I feel the same cursed sinful feeling I have forbidden myself to feel ever again in my life. Don't react Yves. Don't show it, keep yourself in check. I feel like I am walking a tightrope of doubt above a sea of sadness That same sea of sadness seems to have a charybdis of pain and suffering and several sirens of delusions and desire calling me in. But alas, I smile and put my mask on and today we shall look at the beautiful artworks of so many people. Perhaps I will find an artwork that expresses love more easily than we humans do, perhaps I will find something that makes this agony slightly less lonely. Perhaps here I'll find a candle to guide me in the darkness, maybe I'll find a half rotten part of driftwood to keep me alive in this storm.
I have never seen so much beauty on one place. It's like a gallery of human emotions, of the human perfection of imperfection. It's like you are standing in the middle of the universe looking at all the stars asking yourself how come they are all so beautiful. I am baffled by the absolute ethereal spirit in the halls full of artwork from old times. I wish I could dance through this halls, I wish I could smell the forgotten brilliance of everything.
And there she stands. I've seen her so many times in books, in posters, in drawings, but never in real life. She is a bit taller than I am and she stands on a platform. It's the Venus de milo. She is so beautiful, so regal, she looks so loving. Just like a godess of love and desire is supposed to look. But still, she seems just as desperate as any mere mortal. It's almost as if she herself begging you tο love somebody or perhaps she is begging to be loved, to be admired, such a simple human desire that every god must have too. She is so beautiful, so broken but whole, the disarming fact of the missing arms but she seems to be so whole nonetheless. So fragile but so strong. It moves me and I honestly do not know how or why....
'Beautiful isn't she?' Cyril whispers. His voice seems to merge with the sculpture, resulting in a feeling of longing. A feeling of unspoken love. I smile, a sad but nonetheless genuine smile, this time. 'She is stunning.' I say with tears of admiration in my eyes, my voice is broken but I don't care about it, it reflects my feelings and it is still able to speak so why would I care. Let me cry. I look at the statue how strange. How something so ancient seems to move me. Something so broken seems to heal in me, even if it is just a little bit. I could be both broken and beautiful, we could be both broken and beautiful.
Feelings, Something so puzzling. I am thinking as everybody looks at the Mona Lisa. We humans ignore it just like these people ignore the other artworks in order to seem intelectual, they ignore beauty in order to seem intelectual. And why do we wish to be seen as intelectual because we humans are vain, but beauty is something too hard to obtain and can be incredibly expensive, so we choose to present ourselves as intelectuals to compentsate for it. It is as simple as that, I never liked vain people altough I am everyone is.
I look at the blank page in my notebook, I wanted to start writing when I stop, I hesitate before taking a deep breath and bringing the pencil up to the notebook. The pencil slowly strokes the paper. I turn around, leaving the others behind at the Mona Lisa. I don't care if I won't be able to find them again. I want to see her again. It's like the artwork is a star of hope in and endless world of darkness, like she is Polaris the north star, guiding sailors home after an odessey of war. My eyes flow between her and the paper, my hand knows instinctively what to do, I define the features in her face on paper, how strange a person can seem real on paper. I admire the ease Frances does this, it's like it's a dance for her, the rythm perfect and never any hesitation.
I notice how the drawing seems to resemble both my Cyril and the Statue. The whole world, or at least my world, seems to be holding their breath as I swiftly learn how to use the pencil on paper. It's almost as if the soft sounds of the pencil are the only thing I will ever be able to hear. I am not mad about the result. I smile, it doesnt look perfect, it doesnt look like the masterpieces of my sister but the drawing classes I had as a youngster did pay off.
'I thought you might find you here.' Cyril says. At first I do not respond but I decide to say. 'I am sorry for walking away. I did not mean to be hard to find.' I am perfectely aware of the poisonous insult in there. But I am not aware if he will understand it, I don't know if I even want him to.
'Why did you leave? Why is this more beautiful?' He asks, gesturing at the statue. The irony holding my heart in its grip. 'I think I needed to be alone Cyril, I have become used to silence, loneliness.' I say in a silent tone which withholds a lot of emotions. He nods. 'I understand, Do you want me to stop talking?' I remember our first meeting, how strangely alike this is. The only difference we are strangers who know eachother's deepest secrets, we are the other's deepest secret. I chuckle 'No, I quite enjoy your talking.' I respond. Now it's his turn to chuckle. I hate this dance we do. So pretentious 'You always have.' He says. I laugh again, stop laughing Yves. 'Not always, my friend, sometimes I wish you would simply know how to shut your saucebox.' I say, ending this strange dance we like to do.
I turn to him and grab his face with both my hands, like you'd do with a child. I smile a smile full of bittersweet joy. My face muscles hurt as I make an effort to look genuine. I look at him, I look him in his eyes, those damnned lights in his eyes, the lights that have slowly faded from mine, how envious I am of them. How I wish I would not have given them to him all those years ago, I gave them away because he gave me his and now. All that's left are his lights.... Please give me the strength to feel alright. I would ask God for it, for something called mercy but I know it will not help me. It will only dissapoint me. Again.
'You haven't changed a bit I say to Cyril.' Slowly tilting my head in the angle that we are used to when admitting we find something adorable. His smile fades, making place for a bitter expression. 'I never seem to be able to.' 'That's a good thing right' I answer. He shrugs and shakes his head. 'I dont think so, not if you're like me, but that's another conversation! You have changed a lot and still you are very much the same Yves.' He says with a big and bright smile. I do not understand what he means by that, how did I change and stay the same at the same time. That's a contradition. 'Would you care to explain that to me please?' He smirks and shakes his head. He puts a cigarette in my month, swiftly brushing my lips. I feel my desperate heart flutter. desperation, what strange feeling.