Tomoyo Introspection
There are some who are meant to suffer, some who have been smiled upon and embraced by Fate. And there are those whom Lady Luck has turned her face from. They are those who suffer. Like me.
Yes, as I sit in this café, sitting like a Grecian Venus come to life, as some may say, a veritable objet d'art. An object of art, it means. I have been told that I am brilliantly intellectual, beautiful beyond the spoken word, as poetic as the French tongue, with the sound of angels sighing.
They wax poetic.
All flattery seemed to have only skimmed the most superficial surface of myself, and does not touch me like it might do unto others. For years, Lady Luck had beamed vibrantly towards me and Fate having begrudged me all happiness. Is it so possible, that I would possess all that I have ever wanted, except what Fate would choose to bestow to me.
And Fortuna, that merciless force, by her hand She denied me what I wanted. And what did I do? I did nothing. What in our lives does not depend sometimes on luck? Your beauty, by the unseen hand of luck. Your intellect, bestowed by the genetic instructions written into your bones. Your social prowess, all by upbringing which may vary. All of these, the making of perfection, bestowed by luck.
These things I had in profusion. Even my darling untouchable Eriol, he is touched by exquisiteness when so untouchable, but he saw me and I could tell, he was thinking, touche. I had not seen him for so quite a while that he had acquired a beauty of his own, an equal to any male I have ever seen. But I digress. I had a fortune that needed not to be earned, from a loving, lavishing mother, I had talent, given to me by genes, social grace, gifted from years of business dinner parties. Purely ordained by fate.
What do these things mean to me, in the face of the fact that I have not the one I truly want? They mean all the world. The great philosophers might claim that without love one's soul is barren, that one had nothing, but with my fragmented, wounded pride I could repair myself by wrapping myself in the trappings of luxury, of being envied and adored and loved. From a distance.
A silver Lambourghini, a mansion in Monte Carlo, another on the French Riviera, a large yacht, a tres haute boutique couture on Saks Fifth Avenue, Les Champs-Elysees, and anywhere else I desired. The void left by her I filled with designing clothes that even the great Versaces admired and profoundly praised. No, I would not say I am decrepit from lack of love. I am utterly without bitterness or brittle humour, and have accomplished much.
Ah, and of course men. Being gifted with enough beauty and the talent to play that beauty correctly, I could really make them suffer at will, if I so desired. But I befriended them after supposedly trying to date them, though none of them really understood this enigma that is myself, thatI, even I cannot completely comprehend. So I dated the rich and famous, sometimes a combination of both, and made headlines occasionally, and was, as I have said, envied and adored and loved. And also, as I have said, from a very great distance.
I was really starving for companionship, as I have a profound and inexplicable inability to become companions with anyone, especially females. Males, they were friends, but I knew that most of the time they spoke to me in hopes of a date or a kiss; they did not speak to me merely to speak with me. And females. After her, how I did try. Shopping and movies and all those inane little things; they none of them worked to gain simple friends. I wonder why. Perhaps it is simply because since Luck has decided, that devious power, that since I had so many of other things that I would need to lack something.
Truly, I did not understand why they were unwilling to become friends with me. Oh, they will tolerate my presence so they look better in a big group, or so they will not go alone. But I cannot comprehend why none of them are willing to make a deep connection with me, as she had once. But she is far away now, and cannot help me. I would never let on to her, even if she were near. No, I would never.
Eriol. I feel regretful for flirting with him, using my feminine wiles, as some would say. For after the luncheon at the petite café, I saw in his eyes, the next time I saw him at a movie we went together to see, the look of a wild infatuation. Poor Eriol. I suspect, no, I know for sure that he despises himself for it because so many countless hordes have been in his shoes, that he is only the one of many. And he does not like to be so indistinguished. It always makes me feel a little sad, perhaps a trifle guilty, when they become infatuated. For I could never make them happy as their good souls deserve, that they only yearn for forbidden fruit that is not so sweet as it appears.
He is wasting his time on me, I believe. I could not make him happy, or remotely content. But I wish so that some good young woman would come, and save him from this trap that even I cannot control. And she would be the luckiest woman on earth, for he is so utterly handsome, and charming enough for anyone. A beautiful face chiseled not by human hands, and a tall, lithe body gifted with the grace of his immortal years. And such a fine mind! Intellect given by those long, tranquil years of study, of thought, and of the wildly varying places he had been. He cannot go to waste, I believe. We are meant to love, and be loved in return.
And I myself, you ask? No, I would never gift someone with my utterly detatchedness. For I float through life, feeling little except superficial emotions, sometimes vague pain and sadness and guilt. But other emotions, rarely do I taste their flavors. I am a solitary creature, one who exults in companionship, yet knows she was not made for it. Simply not deemed fit for it. This brings to mind the lyrics of a gorgeous song whose name I cannot seem to remember, "Sadness is beautiful, loneliness is tragical." For most, this is true. But one can be beautiful and tragical, can they not?
I must redeem myself to him. I could not let him suffer. I could not lead him on with a sympathetic kindness, as I did so many others. I feel too little to require being loved, and him, I fear he would require more than I have to give.
There are some who are meant to suffer, some who have been smiled upon and embraced by Fate. And there are those whom Lady Luck has turned her face from. They are those who suffer. Like me.
Yes, as I sit in this café, sitting like a Grecian Venus come to life, as some may say, a veritable objet d'art. An object of art, it means. I have been told that I am brilliantly intellectual, beautiful beyond the spoken word, as poetic as the French tongue, with the sound of angels sighing.
They wax poetic.
All flattery seemed to have only skimmed the most superficial surface of myself, and does not touch me like it might do unto others. For years, Lady Luck had beamed vibrantly towards me and Fate having begrudged me all happiness. Is it so possible, that I would possess all that I have ever wanted, except what Fate would choose to bestow to me.
And Fortuna, that merciless force, by her hand She denied me what I wanted. And what did I do? I did nothing. What in our lives does not depend sometimes on luck? Your beauty, by the unseen hand of luck. Your intellect, bestowed by the genetic instructions written into your bones. Your social prowess, all by upbringing which may vary. All of these, the making of perfection, bestowed by luck.
These things I had in profusion. Even my darling untouchable Eriol, he is touched by exquisiteness when so untouchable, but he saw me and I could tell, he was thinking, touche. I had not seen him for so quite a while that he had acquired a beauty of his own, an equal to any male I have ever seen. But I digress. I had a fortune that needed not to be earned, from a loving, lavishing mother, I had talent, given to me by genes, social grace, gifted from years of business dinner parties. Purely ordained by fate.
What do these things mean to me, in the face of the fact that I have not the one I truly want? They mean all the world. The great philosophers might claim that without love one's soul is barren, that one had nothing, but with my fragmented, wounded pride I could repair myself by wrapping myself in the trappings of luxury, of being envied and adored and loved. From a distance.
A silver Lambourghini, a mansion in Monte Carlo, another on the French Riviera, a large yacht, a tres haute boutique couture on Saks Fifth Avenue, Les Champs-Elysees, and anywhere else I desired. The void left by her I filled with designing clothes that even the great Versaces admired and profoundly praised. No, I would not say I am decrepit from lack of love. I am utterly without bitterness or brittle humour, and have accomplished much.
Ah, and of course men. Being gifted with enough beauty and the talent to play that beauty correctly, I could really make them suffer at will, if I so desired. But I befriended them after supposedly trying to date them, though none of them really understood this enigma that is myself, thatI, even I cannot completely comprehend. So I dated the rich and famous, sometimes a combination of both, and made headlines occasionally, and was, as I have said, envied and adored and loved. And also, as I have said, from a very great distance.
I was really starving for companionship, as I have a profound and inexplicable inability to become companions with anyone, especially females. Males, they were friends, but I knew that most of the time they spoke to me in hopes of a date or a kiss; they did not speak to me merely to speak with me. And females. After her, how I did try. Shopping and movies and all those inane little things; they none of them worked to gain simple friends. I wonder why. Perhaps it is simply because since Luck has decided, that devious power, that since I had so many of other things that I would need to lack something.
Truly, I did not understand why they were unwilling to become friends with me. Oh, they will tolerate my presence so they look better in a big group, or so they will not go alone. But I cannot comprehend why none of them are willing to make a deep connection with me, as she had once. But she is far away now, and cannot help me. I would never let on to her, even if she were near. No, I would never.
Eriol. I feel regretful for flirting with him, using my feminine wiles, as some would say. For after the luncheon at the petite café, I saw in his eyes, the next time I saw him at a movie we went together to see, the look of a wild infatuation. Poor Eriol. I suspect, no, I know for sure that he despises himself for it because so many countless hordes have been in his shoes, that he is only the one of many. And he does not like to be so indistinguished. It always makes me feel a little sad, perhaps a trifle guilty, when they become infatuated. For I could never make them happy as their good souls deserve, that they only yearn for forbidden fruit that is not so sweet as it appears.
He is wasting his time on me, I believe. I could not make him happy, or remotely content. But I wish so that some good young woman would come, and save him from this trap that even I cannot control. And she would be the luckiest woman on earth, for he is so utterly handsome, and charming enough for anyone. A beautiful face chiseled not by human hands, and a tall, lithe body gifted with the grace of his immortal years. And such a fine mind! Intellect given by those long, tranquil years of study, of thought, and of the wildly varying places he had been. He cannot go to waste, I believe. We are meant to love, and be loved in return.
And I myself, you ask? No, I would never gift someone with my utterly detatchedness. For I float through life, feeling little except superficial emotions, sometimes vague pain and sadness and guilt. But other emotions, rarely do I taste their flavors. I am a solitary creature, one who exults in companionship, yet knows she was not made for it. Simply not deemed fit for it. This brings to mind the lyrics of a gorgeous song whose name I cannot seem to remember, "Sadness is beautiful, loneliness is tragical." For most, this is true. But one can be beautiful and tragical, can they not?
I must redeem myself to him. I could not let him suffer. I could not lead him on with a sympathetic kindness, as I did so many others. I feel too little to require being loved, and him, I fear he would require more than I have to give.