Yves Montague
The freezing cold of this morning fog contrasted by the warm sun-shine still seems to be so desperate to make me feel something, at least physically. I feel like I am permanently ready to cry. My eyelids are heayy, too heavy to even look at this beautiful city one last time, one last chance to forgive this city for being the thing that has forsaken me. The only thing I see is the street and the shoes from the people walking in front of me, all in a hurry to life the lfe they truly wished to have, most of them will be disappointing. I sigh, I am denying that I am here, that I have been here, I am creating a dreamscape for me so I can trick my mind into thinking everything I have done is less than real, but really, I have held a beating heart in my hands this week, the person who had given it not was sure if I would still nurture it, and that means I disappointed him. Because I too dropped it and took a step back in utter fear. But tell me, who gives their beating heart to a dead men? Who is so foolish? How do you not see my own heart isn't even beating anymore? What murderer thinks his victim will treat him with forgiveness? And the problem is perhaps I know who would, a murderer who regrets it, or one who truly knows his victim.
I feel the tears welling up in my eyes, I am surprised how dry eyes are able produce so many tears. Akiva whispers: 'You'll be alright, I'll be right here with you' And I know he will be. But that doesn't make it any easier, I feel such a heavy burden on me, I feel such presssured to be alright again. Perhaps I dont want to. I had this beautiful spark with the most beautiful, king, loving young men ever and that one spark has now set my whole mind ablaze, I am here burning in the ruins of my mind and soul. I think I believed that fire that warmed our hearts would never destroy so much, I thought we controlled it, but sometimes we do not realise we are playing with fire.
Sometimes leaving feels better than you wish it does, I think this time might be something like that but the only problem is, it stings so much to leave. I know I need to leave but I don't want to, don't I? We arrive at the Paris station when I see Cyril standing in front of the train station. The tears well up again as our gazes meet. Akiva walks up to him but I don't... My eyes reflect the thing I want to say. I want to say I do not need this. I do not want this, my eyes are begging him to leave. Please go home. Please, I am begging you Cyril.
He takes a step towards me 'Yves, I' he whispers under his breath. But I shake and say in utter desperation 'No' I say. He looks down. 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..' He akwardly holds onto his har and wants to leave but I gently put my hand on his soft cheek. I love him so much and I hate how I love him. He leans in a bit, I have tears flowing down my cheeks, and I let them. 'You are still the most beautiful soul I have ever seen, my rain' I whisper. He begins to cry. 'I am so so sorry' He tries to say but I shake my head, 'I meant most of the things I have said.....I hope we'll meet again.' I take my hand back and walk into the station. We will meet again, that I know. but I will most likely be a lot more like my father.
I hate my myself so much, why didn't I hate myself before? Why can't I simply forgive him?
We sit down in the train, I dread this journey where I'll be utterly alone with my troughts. Akiva either reads when he's in a train or sleeps. And I understand that, I wouldn't know what to do to avoid being alone with my thoughts either, which is very evident right now. I look out of the window, wishing life was easier. I feel this anguish growing like a dead tree, perhaps meant to be beautiful but it's so utterly rotten, making everything that comes near it sick. I am sick, I am sick of myself.
Here trapped inside my mind is the real Yves, the real me, the man I would recognise, confined to this space meant to help him forget, but only holding him, guiding him towards this dolor. Resulting in an Yves who is too arrogant to even care about himself, Yves who treats the world with utter despondency, no more beauty or charm, no more flowers, no more music. I do not care anymore, the Yves I keep to myself cries, screams and fights, he cares far too much he always has, but the Yves that has been designed for this mad world has ceased to care, he has given up, he does n not desire to understand anymore. And I know deep inside the real yves is beating on the doors of my common sense, of my very soul. And I know I cannot deny him, he is right, he is me, so I'll open the door only to set the room on fire with both of us inside, I will hold his head under water untill he loses his foolish hope, his childish hope. How cruel I have become....
I am scared of myself, I frighten myself, I don't recognise anything anymore, I don't talk like myself, I don't look like myself, I don't feel like myself, I am a porcelain version of who I once was, and that porcelain is already breakin. If all of it breaks, I wonder, what will it reveal? I do not dare to think about that. I am frightened of the way I am leaving myself behind. There's something growing inside of me and I am utterly terrified of it, perhaps it's simply arrogance, ego, bitterness or something different. Something more poisonous, something more frightening, and the worst is, I don't know how to stop it. It's slowly consuming the things I loved about myself leaving me with nothing but putrid rotting hatred. And I am so scared, I am utterly terrified of myself, I feel like this is all my fault,
I know it is, I was too young, too foolish to understand that I needed to love myself before loving somebody else so absolutely, so deeply. Now I need to convince myself to only love you in pictures and letters, loook at you from far away, while you are not aware of it, just like I used to look at you when you were asleep. I used to love you. So many years ago, you had so much peace, I wish to have that peace but I do not, I wonder if I ever will. I am trying to suffocate the Yves that has loved you so violently, I am killing the man I used to be, the man I was proud to be, and do I regret it?
I am not certain.