Disclaimer: Christian, Satine, and Toulouse are the property of Baz
Luhrmann & Bazmark. The line 'I feel lost, unhappy, and at home' is from
the Seamus Heany poem 'The Tollund Man.'
*********************************************************************
Truth. Beauty. Freedom. Love.
Four things I once believed in. Four naive ideals I foolishly decided to live by. To become a 'Bohemian' and live a penniless existence. What an idiot I was.
There is no truth. Behind every thing that they would make you believe was the truth, there is some degree of a lie. She told me she didn't love me. I believed her when I shouldn't have.
Ugliness is always lurking in the shadows of beauty. I recall the countless occasions I glanced upon Zidler's whores, minus their stage make-up. Hideous. The baying hounds out on the dancefloor would have thought twice about where their money was going, if they'd seen the things I had. But of course not all of the girls had such lying souls. There was one. She was beautiful...
My body is free but my mind is not. My heart is wrapped in chains that I fear are tightening every day. I try to write. God, I try to write, but I cannot produce anything of beauty. Everything is angry and depressed. This foggy cloud of despair in my head will not leave me in peace.
Love. Above all things I believed in love. I still believe in the concept of love; yes, it exists, but I no longer believe that all you need is love. Why would we put ourselves through it? For moments of physical joy, followed by heartbreaking anguish - it's not worth it. As a younger man, I would have died for love. Just to love and be loved in return. Now, even a hint of the devilish curse they call love, and I would be running in the other direction.
I suppose you are wondering how I have come to be like this, hating the world. I have my reasons. I should stop it, I should get over it. But if I lose my pain, does that mean that I will lose my memories of her? Memories I would never sacrifice, whatever the cost.
The past months have been a thick, green haze. The pain was still the same, drunk or sober, but I drank the stuff anyway - gave me somthing to do. Apparently it's bad for you. Eats your brain, so I've heard. Like I care. As if I have anything to live for. Toulouse has been very worried about me lately. He says he has never seen a person with such a bitter soul. It's his damn fault, giving me the absinthe.
There I go again. Blaming. After she left me, I was intent on pinning the blame on someone. Something physical, that I could destroy with my own hands, destroy for taking my love away from me. First it was Zidler. If he had cared for her so much, why wasn't her illness treated by the best doctors he could find? No, he loved her almost as much as I did. If he could have done anything, he would. Besides, she was his big money-maker. Then the Duke. But while I despised him with every moral fibre in my body, it still wasn't his fault. He didn't give her tuberculosis. The only one I could use as my scape goat was poor Toulouse. He wasn't to blame, not one bit, but in those first few fuzzy weeks after it happened he was the only person game enough to venture into my apartment. It was Toulouse who made me write the show; Toulouse who took me to the Moulin Rouge; Toulouse who arranged a meeting for me with her; Toulouse who told me that she really did love me - all good excuses in my mind. I put him through hell, I must have. I was an unrelenting force. I really should apologise one of these days.
They tell me they understand what I'm going through. Like hell they do. They don't know what it's like to have your heart ripped out of your chest, thrown on the ground, mauled by dogs, picked up, thrown back in, then sewn up, for it to happen all over again.
The night it happened - well, I don't remember much of that night. I remember being too numb to cry. A few tears, yes, but they were just mechanical - I knew I should be crying, so I did. As we lay on that stage, a tangle of bodies, I stroked her face, and whispered in her ear, willing her to open her eyes again, to say it was all just a mistake, or an act, or something. My arms were rigid around her body; it took a lifetime of coaxing by Chocolat for me to finally relinquish my hold. I sat there, a emotionless sack of potatoes until Toulouse dragged me back to my garrett. Shock is a funny thing.
The tears came sometime that night. I had never cried with such intensity, nor had I seen anyone do so. I had lost something that was never coming back. Not just a physical object, I had lost part of my soul, and she had it. I had almost hated her. Hated her for making me love her, hated her for making me feel like this. I hated her, but I would have died to have her back. My shirt was soaked from the tears that night.
After the crying, came the uncontrollable shaking. I was physically and emotionally exhausted, but I could not sleep. Toulouse came in with blankets, thinking I was cold, but in all honesty I still don't know why I was shaking. I assumed it was because I had no more tears to cry - my eyes were dry - and my body was just trying to do something to make me even more miserable. It worked. The next morning I ached so much I could not move. It suited me though. If I had got up, I might have had to face reality. And that was something I was not prepared to do.
I had loved her so much. More than I can possibly put into words. A silly poem could hardly have done it justice anyway. It was like...it was like she completed me. Everything I lacked, she was. It was if the sun shone brighter, and the birds chirped more happily when we were together. Silly, I know.
I still see her. I see her beauty in every sunset, every rainbow, and I hear her sweet voice whenever her little bird sings. I dote on that bird - it's the only thing I care about. The last piece of her, and I intend to hang on to it for as long as possible.
I never knew I could feel like this. It's like I'll never see the sky again. In my own heart I feel lost, unhappy, and at home.
- C
*********************************************************************
Truth. Beauty. Freedom. Love.
Four things I once believed in. Four naive ideals I foolishly decided to live by. To become a 'Bohemian' and live a penniless existence. What an idiot I was.
There is no truth. Behind every thing that they would make you believe was the truth, there is some degree of a lie. She told me she didn't love me. I believed her when I shouldn't have.
Ugliness is always lurking in the shadows of beauty. I recall the countless occasions I glanced upon Zidler's whores, minus their stage make-up. Hideous. The baying hounds out on the dancefloor would have thought twice about where their money was going, if they'd seen the things I had. But of course not all of the girls had such lying souls. There was one. She was beautiful...
My body is free but my mind is not. My heart is wrapped in chains that I fear are tightening every day. I try to write. God, I try to write, but I cannot produce anything of beauty. Everything is angry and depressed. This foggy cloud of despair in my head will not leave me in peace.
Love. Above all things I believed in love. I still believe in the concept of love; yes, it exists, but I no longer believe that all you need is love. Why would we put ourselves through it? For moments of physical joy, followed by heartbreaking anguish - it's not worth it. As a younger man, I would have died for love. Just to love and be loved in return. Now, even a hint of the devilish curse they call love, and I would be running in the other direction.
I suppose you are wondering how I have come to be like this, hating the world. I have my reasons. I should stop it, I should get over it. But if I lose my pain, does that mean that I will lose my memories of her? Memories I would never sacrifice, whatever the cost.
The past months have been a thick, green haze. The pain was still the same, drunk or sober, but I drank the stuff anyway - gave me somthing to do. Apparently it's bad for you. Eats your brain, so I've heard. Like I care. As if I have anything to live for. Toulouse has been very worried about me lately. He says he has never seen a person with such a bitter soul. It's his damn fault, giving me the absinthe.
There I go again. Blaming. After she left me, I was intent on pinning the blame on someone. Something physical, that I could destroy with my own hands, destroy for taking my love away from me. First it was Zidler. If he had cared for her so much, why wasn't her illness treated by the best doctors he could find? No, he loved her almost as much as I did. If he could have done anything, he would. Besides, she was his big money-maker. Then the Duke. But while I despised him with every moral fibre in my body, it still wasn't his fault. He didn't give her tuberculosis. The only one I could use as my scape goat was poor Toulouse. He wasn't to blame, not one bit, but in those first few fuzzy weeks after it happened he was the only person game enough to venture into my apartment. It was Toulouse who made me write the show; Toulouse who took me to the Moulin Rouge; Toulouse who arranged a meeting for me with her; Toulouse who told me that she really did love me - all good excuses in my mind. I put him through hell, I must have. I was an unrelenting force. I really should apologise one of these days.
They tell me they understand what I'm going through. Like hell they do. They don't know what it's like to have your heart ripped out of your chest, thrown on the ground, mauled by dogs, picked up, thrown back in, then sewn up, for it to happen all over again.
The night it happened - well, I don't remember much of that night. I remember being too numb to cry. A few tears, yes, but they were just mechanical - I knew I should be crying, so I did. As we lay on that stage, a tangle of bodies, I stroked her face, and whispered in her ear, willing her to open her eyes again, to say it was all just a mistake, or an act, or something. My arms were rigid around her body; it took a lifetime of coaxing by Chocolat for me to finally relinquish my hold. I sat there, a emotionless sack of potatoes until Toulouse dragged me back to my garrett. Shock is a funny thing.
The tears came sometime that night. I had never cried with such intensity, nor had I seen anyone do so. I had lost something that was never coming back. Not just a physical object, I had lost part of my soul, and she had it. I had almost hated her. Hated her for making me love her, hated her for making me feel like this. I hated her, but I would have died to have her back. My shirt was soaked from the tears that night.
After the crying, came the uncontrollable shaking. I was physically and emotionally exhausted, but I could not sleep. Toulouse came in with blankets, thinking I was cold, but in all honesty I still don't know why I was shaking. I assumed it was because I had no more tears to cry - my eyes were dry - and my body was just trying to do something to make me even more miserable. It worked. The next morning I ached so much I could not move. It suited me though. If I had got up, I might have had to face reality. And that was something I was not prepared to do.
I had loved her so much. More than I can possibly put into words. A silly poem could hardly have done it justice anyway. It was like...it was like she completed me. Everything I lacked, she was. It was if the sun shone brighter, and the birds chirped more happily when we were together. Silly, I know.
I still see her. I see her beauty in every sunset, every rainbow, and I hear her sweet voice whenever her little bird sings. I dote on that bird - it's the only thing I care about. The last piece of her, and I intend to hang on to it for as long as possible.
I never knew I could feel like this. It's like I'll never see the sky again. In my own heart I feel lost, unhappy, and at home.
- C