Sloth
"The Slothful do not have the time to become virtuous or despicable." Henry David Thoreau.
It is a dangerous life, to believe in nothing. The nights pass through like a shadow and the days gleam across my eyes, reflections and echoes undistinguishable from their makers. Tangibility and realism are as obvious as your anticipation for the night to arrive, but the visceral proof of existence and actuality have never been enough to inconvenience me into trusting. You have your text messages and your hair to iron, your buttons to close, your laces to tie. I have no need, no desire, no innovation. It's safe because it is docile but, as I watch you, it's apparent that it is dangerous too- because it is nothing.
It is a dull life, to never seeks knowing anything. Knowledge is power, fascination and it comes with a price. Ignorance can be willful; if you close your eyes, it's just as easy as falling asleep. The couch has such a generous embrace that the cold edges of the laptop or the cool sadness of your words fail to stir any of the response that they once would. I am wholly mindful of the fact that I could reach across the yielding keys and form the words or questions just as easily as I could watch your arm and see the bruises and the marks, but neither appeals to me, and so I don't.
It is a secluded life, to interfere with nothing. There is a thick wall surrounding my mind, I am not blinded, merely distanced. The tendrils of tenacious details curl their way through the crystals of glass, informing me in great detail of your unwept tears, waiting in the corners of your eyes, every syllable of his harsh words, biting across the air between you, of the way your knees buckle and give way, the precise timing of his final insult as the door slams shut and how it's only after that that you'll allow yourself to cry, hot tears burning down your cheeks. Everything about you screams of your desire to be held and comforted, and I can see it all behind my walls, watching with mild interest until my attention is taken elsewhere.
It is a tedious life, to enjoy nothing. And goodness knows you've tried. It doesn't bother me at all; the efforts you go to are surely admirable and generous- trips into town and horror movies, imaginative milkshakes and an endless stream of enthusiastic friends. I sometimes wonder how it is that I am yet to find you frustrating and irritating, but perhaps it is fortunate for both of us that I've never had the time to see you that way. I can see that, gradually, methodically, your pleasure fades with mine, but there is no satisfaction to be found in that either. Were I more sadistic, I could enjoy your demise, the steady dullness forming in your eyes and the firm decline of your angular smile, but perhaps it is unfortunate for both of us that I am not.
It is a lonely life, to love no one. Sometimes when I wake, too early to call it morning, too late for anything but rest, I wonder what it might feel like to sleep in a warm bed. Perhaps it would disturb the entire process, leaving two restless, overheating bodies too exhausted to argue but too incensed to rest. Perhaps it would fit, as they say, like a glove- but I can't say I could ever be bothered with all those individual fingers. Perhaps you'd stop calling out for him. But I could never be bothered to reach down and adjust the covers and so you comfort yourself with multiplying mugs of warmed milk and I eventually fall back into the inevitable, tremulous dreams.
It is a numbing life, to hates nothing. It might be the easiest to mimic, with screwed up fists and violent eyes, stabbing straight through the helpless target of their abhorrence. Hatred is as natural to us as seeing; we observe difference, then we designate our titles and our assumptions follow in a steady flow until they could the retinas and we can no longer differentiate between vision and judgment. Without it, my world is sepia and monotonous; the fire reserved for someone more deserving with better use for it. I am left with hyper-efficient sponges for eyes, that ensure my retinas remain dry and unscarred.
It is a futile life, to never find purpose in anything. There's a dark square defying the thick film of dust coating our window ledge that I should really fix. The cactus died three weeks before you did, but I think it had been a good few months before that where both of us had failed to water it. Cacti are bred for endurance; but humans are bred for flaws. It was a flaw to fall in love with me. Why would I ever fight for you when I can't find the strength to battle for my own survival?
It is a deadened life, to live for nothing. The days bleed together in a streaming mess of emotions, thoughts and actions happening to other people, with their futile ambitions dreams. The cacophony is deafening, simply wading through their shambolic subsistence would be enough to drive you mad- if you were foolish enough to look where you placed each step. There are those who crush, those who plant, those who burn and those who nurture, and then there is me. Do not assume that I am grand enough to believe that my life means anything when we both know it doesn't.
Neither did yours.
Sometimes I wonder if I envy those who care- who find a way, or a way out. At least you, despite all your hurt, have found a purpose. You have suffering, you have sadness and they have so very much pain. I am not sure if I envy you, if I admire you or if I wish I could be like you.
I only remain alive because I am yet to find anything to die for.
Credit to the amazing Dorothy L Sayers for being a mindblowingly inspiring author and writing crossover fanfiction way back in the 1920's! Also for the lovely people who reviewed 'Wrath'; DovahFinn, NeverlandNat, Malteser24, stellapurple219 and MalLesterHowell, you guys make me grin lots :3 Hope you liked this part! Sorry if its a bit confusing, feel free to ask anything about any of these pieces! There is a lot of working backstories which I hope come through but don't disturb the flow too much :)
We've passed halfway! Only three to go..
xxx panfs
