[Hmm Dimitri seems to rant in run-on sentences. Please let me know if it's illegible babbling on my part.]
[OK, I should leave this, come back later and fix it. But I'm a bit neurotic about internal consistency. Write, save, post. One day, it will be my downfall.]
[BTW, many thanks to all who responded. It made me happy :]
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Chapter 2
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His life was just beginning.
After so many years of not writing, he found himself unable to wait one more day. On the drive home, he came a tad close to colliding with a mail box as he dug around for a scrap of paper on which to record a few phrases that had the potential to become a fully grown poem. Or short story. Or novel. Heck, you never knew about inspiration, that was the fun of it.
Time dissolved, as he focused, not on recent events, but on all the emotions and mini-crisis that had peppered his life in the last… How long now?
Too long. Was he dead then? Was he dormant? Maybe he was simply a caterpillar in its cocoon, and now he was finally breaking free, stretching his new wings and gazing at the big bright world.
Since he had emerged, he had done little more than force himself to periodically eat and rest. Otherwise, he spent his time allowing ideas, fragments of poems, slight compositions on various topics, allowing anything and everything to tumble from his mind.
Certain bits of it worried him. While writing, he would feel a twinge, and glance over what he had written. But the next moment, he forced himself to forget, losing himself in another spurt of creativity.
He was finally running down. He became conscious of the stacks, scraps, and scribble-filled notebooks littering his desk and floor. There even appeared to be a haiku on his wall, next to the bathroom door. The voice in his head no longer shouted and ran about, but sighed and snuggled and said "let's take a break, then see if any of that was any good!"
His computer had not been shut off for a very long time, but now he saved and closed all the open word documents, opened his mailbox, and went for coffee. The smell of fresh-brew brought happy memories of college days, when overtaxed and harried students would totter about the halls, running on the last vestige of massive caffeine highs. No matter the contradicting reality, there, in college, was the essence of creation. So many minds crossed paths, each thinking, many creating, and all feeding off the atmosphere of unlimited potential.
Of course, all that turned out to be an illusion. Ideals are wonderful, but life does have a tendency to butt in. Perhaps the answer was to never leave. He had thought about that, once. Actually, he had been offered a position, one not without opportunities. But at that time… The world seemed like such a wonderful place to go it alone, transcribing the wonders of life and thus erecting for himself an immortal monument in the form of regular black markings on faintly off-white paper.
Youth. Yes, he was bitter about his own life. But his own life was his own fault. And he did wind up teaching high school. It was a poor substitute for the remembrance of college days, but better than nothing.
And the kids… They reminded him of his classmates when he was that age. Thoughts like "were they really so incompetent back then?" occurred infrequently, thank God, as he had never thought much of his classmates to begin with.
But they weren't all like that. Once and a while, he would find a spark. One that reminded him of that spark he had been so conscious of back then, though unsure of how best to use it. If his had died, there was yet satisfaction in encouraging those of others, who might have better luck.
And then there was…
…Talent…
A suspicion gnawed at the corners of consciousness. Taking cautious sips of coffee, by this time quite cool, he practically snuck up on his desk. Sifting through, he found what he feared:
Our days are numbered.
Storms pass, lightning strikes,
Rainbows smile down on the dead
Floating in the swollen streams,
Casualties of a glance too high.
Is it for man to look upon his God,
His creator? Or is he the creator
Of his God, and to look is confirm?
Can not such imparted meaning,
Lain from a spirit too weak to bear,
Reside as easily in a breast as a star?
In a young flower as in the vigilant moon?
In his own past, future, present, a home for his love?
Why lose life to nature?
Why give up a soul to an artificial code?
Why not grasp it now, lay hold of that container,
Residence of being?
When our days are numbered?
And another, scribbled on what appeared to be someone's essay on Of Mice and Men. Oops.
The future, they say, is unknowable.
The possibilities are endless, chances many.
Is this permission to ever hold out for something more?
In the end, all must be past.
There is no future, no present but for the single thought encompassing the whole of life.
Will it matter then if perfection,
If truth, if beauty, if happiness,
Were held but for one moment, one hour, one day?
Can one be condemned for letting it slip away?
Slip into the soft wash of memory?
Is it better to grasp and break,
Or to release and mourn?
Had he spent all those years at the mercy of reality, to return to juvenile idealism?
But that wasn't what bothered him. What was worst was that he could not remember writing any of it.
He read it, as if it were written by a stranger. Each line was new to him, though all too familiar.
A moment of rage took him. The wadded sheets missed the trash can, though he didn't see this. His eyes were instead tightly shut, forcing the tears back down. He would later define this as a slight aggravation of a topic suppressed down to his brain stem. For the present, it was that-which-is-not-to-be-thought-of. Stop. Back. Do Not Enter.
Ah. Good time to check his mail.
Quite a bit had piled up. Not an insignificant amount was from students, either in desperate need of help on an essay (something he was no longer in a position to help with) or wishing him well in his new pursuits. There was also a question regarding the fate of the gay/straight alliance. He wondered about that. His brain shied away. Well, no doubt the administration would take care of it.
Another untimely class-related question.
Umm…
Or not.
It only took until the Or August following the common Mr. Dimitri for him to know who was the author. Though that might have been because "On Love" would have struck his eye, and unconsciously been sent up for his mind to work on, and only one student, or adult for that matter, would be talking to him about "On Love" at this particular time.
The heavy cage with the suppressed thoughts inside was starting to show a worrisome amount of wear.
To hell with it.
Had he expected every bit of her to be gone from his life, leaving only a hint at his emotions, and later, an idealized version of herself? No. But had he wished for it?
Yes, if it would make life easier.
Conflict was wonderful. Conflict drove life. Conflict was best served cold, and done away with with eyes ahead and chin up.
No, he was hoping for the route which would leave minimal pain on himself. And hopefully, even less on her, as she was young, would move on, would find her own muse…
Fine, might as well admit it all.
Grace Manning possessed the raw talent and passion he had owned, at her age. Only he was a fake, and she was real. He was a coward in fact, while she hid only on the surface.
If they had been in high school together, he would have jumped for the chance to encourage her, tell her how brilliant she was, how talented, how beautiful, not only in body, but in soul, which was so much more important, rare and valuable. What's more, he would have proven it to her, not only by words, but also action. At least, he hoped he would have. One's adolescent self has a nasty habit of having been a tad more conceited and blind than one would have liked it to be.
But of course, reality won't set up the cards that way.
So he was destined for a second best role. He was there to be her mentor, watch her come out of her shell and grow more confidant, both as writer and person. For his apparent failure at existence to be validated by his encouragement of her development. Then, hopefully, to remain in her mind as a rather good teacher, when she was writing her biography or chronicling her realization of potential.
Except that she had a rather obvious crush on him. How to teach her, help her, when his words would not be taken as advice to be evaluated and picked over, but as the preachings of a glorified fake? How to separate the real talent and mature introspection from the schoolgirl's crush?
He should have known it was more. Should have known because of the source. Why hadn't he?
Likely he had. But the 'why me's and the general idea of her superiority in potential had made him keep his suspicion buried.
Mostly.
Her slight social awkwardness might have resulted in some confusion, on her part, as to what certain subtle, accidental signs meant. But it is rather hard to miss someone slowly, inexorably, leaning in to kiss you.
That must have been confusing for her. Perhaps even more confusing than for him. After all, she was supposed to be untried, unwise in worldly matters such as infatuation and real love. Or rather, used to the crushes and fawnings of students which no one, least of all they themselves, ever believed would come to pass. And then, along he came, playing the part that should have remained in the imagination…
Curses. And everyone must think, deep down, that he was enjoying this. That he liked to pursue slight but inappropriate relationships with students. Or that he was ecstatic over decades worth of searching for an ideal, a perfection, anything to believe in, which he finally found…
How else could it end? She would move on, after a bit of angst. He would use it, those months of enlightenment, and see what sort of a writer he really was, if there was anything under the fear.
Somewhere about here in his musings, he realized that he had never bothered to read beyond the opening salutation of the e-mail.
It was thus with no small amount of apprehension that he continued.
He couldn't help but smile. He had been worried about a letter full of soppy sentiments, which he knew would later be loathed and regretted. He realized this when he found none, and at the same time admitted that nothing of that sort would or could come from Grace, not like this.
The plea of "Grace" escaped his lips, a sigh that entirely bypassed his brain, opting instead for a non-stop flight from the heart. Fingertips brushed the screen, as if to comfort her, or himself, or perhaps only in longing for something he had already given up.
'If you love something, let it go. If it comes
back it's yours. If it doesn't,
it never really was in the first place.'
The lines flitted through his mind. He pushed them away. If this particular thing came back, it would not be his. It would be a bondage, taking advantage of a few moments of panicked homesickness. It would be best to let her go, and take himself away.
He shouldn't have read her e-mail. He definitely shouldn't respond. Let her hate him, or at least be faced with sudden void. She had given him permission. Just stop it now. Before anyone got too hurt.
It was the same driving force behind his proliferation of writings that prevented him from just letting her go. As long as she didn't actually 'come back,' but only visited…
He clicked 'reply.'
Paused.
Rethought his decision.
Paused.
The pointer hovered over the tiny 'x' in the upper right, its vacillations mirroring the struggle within him. Or at least the appearance of a struggle. He had known what he would do, from the very first moment he knew this was from her.
Grace-