MXN
STYX

There's a reason that the old storie have lasted so long. A reason why cupid is still blindfolded, a reason why the Trojan horse is still alive and well, even as a computer virus. It's because they're true--because they grew out of man's heart. They are our soul, with all it's darkness and light.

Himeros and Anteros walk beside me, a permanent company, a royal train. Love and Hate. I guess I must be Eros.

It's the same old story—the angel on your right shoulder, the devil on your left. That's the image I was raised on. But I've done some reading, lately. Oh, you'd be surprised how philosophical I can get.

I walk by silently. I pass you like a soldier passing the empty desert of a former battleground. I suppose you'd be Athena, and I'd be Ares. Defense and offense, push and pull.

You have eerie eyes, you know that? Everything else is white, white as snow, but your eyes are black as midnight. Eyes are the windows to the soul. That says a lot about you, doesn't it?

I traverse my battlefield, accompanied by two specters. Himeros glides along my right, singing of longing in the voice of windy English days. Anteros marches at my left, calling in his vengeful rage like the creaks of a battered building in the storm.

On the mornings when you look away, absorbed in your intricate puzzles—they must be so much simpler than the world I live in—and say nothing at all, ignore me adamantly, those are the times when Anteros howls loudest.

He shakes my arms and rages, red eyes bright and burning. His heart beats loud and wild, his voice is uncontrollable. It's the same wildness that brings me thoughts of wrapping my hands around your neck and squeezing, squeezing till I feel veins pop and you can't even gasp any more.

Instead, I kick your puzzle across the room and leave.

You are a very lucky boy.

But some afternoons, you look at me. You tell me hello, or you blink and offer to share a puzzle with me. Inane, meaningless bits of trite nonsense. But those are the times that Himeros wraps his arms around my waist and hums happily, his longing sated with mine. The feeling is uncomfortable, you know.

So I bite out an insult and leave.

I'm amazed that you still offer, actually. I must look so hateful. Well, I am hateful. It's just that there's more than that, mixed in there somewhere. I'm not very good at separating things out.

I don't know why I love you. It's not a choice. It's sure as hell not a matter of freewill. Maybe it's because you gave me something to reach for, all those years ago, when I was lost in the world. Maybe it has to do with the physical—you aren't bad looking, you know. Or maybe, it's because no matter how many vicious things I yell at you, you never ignore me for long.

We'll probably live out our whole lives this way—not that 'our whole lives' will last us long. The life expectancy for people like us is depressingly low. And I'll die still loving you, and you'll die with no idea at all.

It's better that way.

Suppose we meet up again in the afterlife… I think I might tell you then. Death strips away a man's hubris better than anything. I'll be able to look you in the eye then, and I'll be able to face your rejection—or worse yet, your love.

Himeros and Anteros agree. How unusual that is. I guess it only goes to show that every side of me is tied to you, good and bad, cruel and compassionate.

Yes, when we walk in the company of Thanatos, I'll tell you.

I swear.

Note: Athena is the godess of defensive warfare, Ares is the god of offensive warfare, hemeros is the personification of longing love, and anteros is the personification of vengful/hateful love.

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