Ambiguity
Sometimes, I'm afraid to touch her. One day, I will reach out but my hand will pass through air. Unreal. . .illusory. . A dream that will fade away. . .leaving me with nothing. And I will wake, jaded and disillusioned. But I find that reality lies within the compass of her touch.
I fear that a brush of my fingers against her hand will shatter our frail happiness. It will tumble down and I will find myself left amidst the ruins, alone. Yet her smile creates ecstasy.
I'm on the rack. A look, a gesture, a word from her stretches me too far, past the limit of my endurance. Torture. Pleasure. I stay in hell, though, knowing that I'm actually in heaven.
What does she feel when she's with me? Does she feel the same conflict within her heart? I don't know. She hides too much behind those dark eyes and that demure manner. I too am hiding. I too shy away—frightened by the power she holds over me and by the intensity of my longing.
**********
There are days when I can't be near her. Those are dangerous days. There is witchcraft in her, I think. She compels me, draws me forward. . .threatening to drive me mad. When she smiles at me, when she speaks, when she lets her fingers touch mine briefly. . . In one fleeting moment, I feel my self-control slipping. I hang precariously onto sanity.
But then, if I surrender myself to her, what would I lose?
Everything, perhaps.
**********
A few revelers linger in the street. Their voices reverberate through the empty well of night, distant, dissonant. We sit beneath the trees, silently watching the people gyrate about, drunk from the evening's pleasure or liquor. I'm not sure which.
She says nothing. She passively watches the figures gliding by us. I see them reflected in her glance. They pause, suspended for a moment in the dark mirrors of her eyes. Then they pass on. Those eyes often mimic the images that pass before it, but they seldom produce an impression of their own.
But when I look into her eyes, I see myself.
She is like me. She sees much with those dark eyes of hers. She speaks little. But I know what secrets lie hidden within her. They are all too familiar.
She understands the uncertainty. To love is to suffer and enjoy. To crucify your happiness is to resurrect the joy of another. She knows. And I know. It's what binds me to her. But one word, one caress menaces to sever this fragile thread between us. I could break it now, I know. But I can't. I won't.
She is innocent yet. And I am not.
***********
We walk along the dark road in silence. I clear my throat to speak but I find the words bogged down in my uncertainty.
She looks at me. She senses my fear. I turn away. We continue walking.
I don't want to lose myself.
The stark white glare of a street-lamp illumines her face. It's an unfriendly light—too severe, too austere. It is not one that blends and softens irregularity. It is truthful, upright, pure. It suits her. Perhaps because it is like her.
I trace my eyes along the curve of her cheek and the mobile peony of her mouth. She doesn't notice. She doesn't know. But I want to show her. But I can't expose myself to her harsh light. And so we walk onwards through the bitter autumn night.
To speak, to confess is submission. And it's a freedom that I can't have. To surrender to myself and to her would only blight us. I would take her, hold her. . .violate her. But I can't. I won't. If I touch her, I lose all. Her innocence will melt away, evaporated by the heat of my desire.
I don't want to lose myself.
The wind plays with the black streamers of her hair, tossing them about her pale face. I resist the temptation to brush them back. It is always like this—a struggle between desire and self-denial. Straining to break free and to hold back.
I don't want to lose myself.
**********
We stop beneath a street-lamp. Her eyes are cast down, her hands folded before her. She's trembling. A shining drop falls from her lash. With my fingers, I wipe away her tears. My hand rests against her cheek. For a moment, she presses my palm against her face. But only for a moment. I draw my hand away.
She looks at me, her eyes unreadable. She moves towards me and reaches out. I close my eyes, thinking her hand will pass through me. Her fingers brush against my face.
Too late. I'm lost.
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AUTHOR'S NOTES:
Egads, talk about ambiguity! I know, I know, this piece is mystifying but even I can't make sense of it. Let's just say I plunged into a trance when I wrote this work. I simply let myself go and let my consciousness flow out (and no, I was not in an illegal, narcotic-induced state).
I had an earlier draft of this work sent out to the CardCaptor Sakura Mailing List (which, by-the-bye, is a very friendly and helpful list!). Even then when I sent this piece out, I wasn't quite satisfied with the way it turned out. I tried to polish it up, but it's a stubborn little bugger. It seems that no amount of re-writing can salvage this piece of junk. ^_^;
In truth, this piece was heavily influenced—and I emphasize "heavily"—by Tin Mandigma's "Turn" and "Faux Naif." They are two of the most beautiful, lyrical works of fanfiction that I've ever read. Her works are surreal, elegant, haunting. . .I could go on and on about her writings. I won't bore you with my ravings, but suffice to say, she is a past master of lyrical prose. (Gee, I wish I could think of another word for "lyrical" but my brain and my thesaurus fail me.) My raptures could not do full justice to her writing style.
I attempted—mind, I said attempted—to use a stream-of-consciousness approach. I wanted to capture the essence of Eriol's heart and mind. Thoughts and emotions are too incorporeal, too transient—they cannot be fully expressed in meaty sentences and weighty descriptions. They lose their poignancy and depth. They become sterile and meaningless. They become detached and distant. In short, I thought a looser, more unstructured style would best convey what was in his heart. I probably failed miserably. But I gave it my best shot! ^_^
Lastly, this work focused on a relationship between Eriol and Tomoyo. Now, now, I know what you're probably thinking: "What relationship? There's no stinkin' relationship between those two! What, are you crazy?!" And frankly, yes, I am crazy. ^_^ Seriously, don't blame me—blame it on a hyperactive mind working under the influence of Tin Mandigma. (Coupled with an urgent desire to avoid studying, the ever-present bane of my existence.)