A Christian/Toulouse musing of mine crossed with some quotes from the hours. it mightn't make sense, let's hope it does. This is for Janice, feel free to follow Christian's lead and whack me with a newspaper if you agree with him on this, angel.
*~*The scent of her perfume still hangs loosely in the air of my room. The pillowcases of the bed we shared still smell of her. Sometimes when I wake in the morning the scent and feel of her is so strong I think she might actually be here.
I only have to roll over to prove myself wrong.
My garret doesn't look the same anymore; it's dark and dirty. She used to light it up with the click of her fingers or the sound of her voice. There are so many moments where I stand in the middle of my room, thinking nothing, feeling nothing and living nothing; I am living a life I've no wish to live.
Toulouse came by one morning, when I had no wish to leave my bed and insisted on getting me into a conversation with him. He's so persistent for a drunken idealistic painter.
"Won't you come out for a walk today, Christian?" he asked me as he hobbled around my garret, pottering over this and that on my desk. I could sense his eyes brushing over our story I'd written.
"No," I replied flatly and didn't add any reason as to why not, one-syllable answers had become a habit of mine nowadays.
"Oh come Christian!" Toulouse went on, "It's a beautiful day outside, and the sun is out..."
"I hate the sun," I cut in.
"Christian," Toulouse sighed, come over to stand beside me as I lied limply on the bed, "You're never going to get anywhere if you don't stand up and face the world again," he said seriously to me.
"But I still have to face the hours don't I?" I said bluntly, "The hours after I get up and then the hours after that, there are still the hours aren't there? All those hours without her," I mused bitterly.
"Would you rather face them here alone then?" Toulouse asked flatly.
"I'm not alone, I've got memories to keep me company," I corrected him.
"Sad memories though," Toulouse pointed out.
"Not all of them," I whispered, "Most of them, although more ironic than sad,"
"Share a memory with me Christian," Toulouse whispered very sincerely and very suddenly, as though it was some sort of last request. I shifted my head to face him a little more and found he wasn't actually looking at me, but off into oblivion past my face towards the wall. I didn't usually share my memories of Satine to anyone, but I felt, for Toulouse, I had to, more than could, make an exception.
"I remember," I said, beginning to stare into my own oblivion as I spoke, "The first time I ever kissed her and the first time I ever held her, I thought; this is the beginning of happiness, this is where it starts and of course, there will always, always be more," I said, my voice was very low, like the deep tremor of a song fading away. I wondered if my voice always sounded that soulful when I recited memories to myself.
"It never occurred to me it wasn't the beginning; it was happiness, it was the moment, right then, until it was too late and she along with every beam of happiness, was gone," I trailed off in conclusion. Toulouse looked up at me and I thought he would cry, his eyes were glassy with excess water.
"You're right," he said, "Memories are better company,"
"In a sense," I nodded, better than going out for a walk anyway or to wherever Toulouse would no doubt end up.
I began to move slowly, like a creature waking from many years of sleep and dangled my legs over the side of the bed. I had my gaze set on my musty typewriter and Toulouse seemed to think it was his cue to leave.
"I must be going then," he said with a sniff and quickly, trying not to catch my attention, he wiped his eyes, "Good day, Christian," he added as he headed swiftly to my door.
"Good day, Toulouse," I replied quietly and waited for the door to click shut before I moved again.
My typewriter was dusty and smelt of old and decaying ink, I pressed my fingers to the ribbon and received a stain of black. It was still fit for use, then. I took a discarded sheet of blank paper and threaded it through and lined the machine up for typing, then wondered what exactly I was intending to write. I wondered if there was any words or poetry left in me, had my source of prose died out when she did? There had to be something left, I reasoned, or I wouldn't have brought myself over here.
A dove landed on my windowsill.
I looked at it and it looked back at me, puffing out its proud snowy white feathered chest in some form of greeting to me.
"Silly bird," I whispered, "Come to chat to the poet have we? Silly thing, we're worlds away from each other," I stopped suddenly and looked at the bird again. Here it was, staring at me, a creature of a race far superior to it, and it wasn't afraid. It was looking life in the face and surviving with what it is and making the best of it.
I turned away and looked at the blank page waiting for me, there was something left in me after all. I placed my fingers over the keys and began.
'Dear Satine. To look life in the face, always to look life in the face and to know it for what it is. At last to know it for what it is and then, to put it away. Satine, always the years between us, always the years we will have to survive apart, always, the love, and always, the hours. We're worlds away my darling, but that will never stop us from being reunited. '