Chapter 12
Hope is the rainbow above the crashing down creek of life.
(Friedrich Nietzsche; free translation from German)
Sunday. The Lord's day. The end of something is better than its beginning. A patient spirit is better than a great spirit. (The Bible, Ecclesiastes 7.8)
What happened was a mistake. It resounded inside his skull like a never-ending echo of razor-sharp noise. It meant nothing, an accident. But does an accident count more, if it feels right? Or does it not count how it feels. And he almost realized, that alcohol might not numb you only for a bit. But it was okay, because something inside him loved the way he lied. Because only words bleed. And they bled heavily in his soul, no matter if human or angel.
And all denial, all anger, negotiation, depression and all acceptance wasn't enough to understand it all. And he was carried away to feel what needed to be felt. Only when it rained, you missed the sun. And only when you are down, you know that you were happy before. And just when you're left back, you really understand a person.
And he stared into the bottom of his glass and hoped one day a dream would last. But dreams came slowly and left quickly. He could see it whenever he closed his eyes, and thought maybe one day he would understand why everything he touched died. And whenever he stared at the ceiling in the dark, he felt the same old feeling in his heart. But feelings came slowly and left quickly. Never would he touch, never could he keep.
And it seemed he couldn't get over the quiet pain. Every time he felt okay, it seemed to start anew. All had to be so hard. He had enough. And also never enough. He did everything for it to work, quieting down the ache in his heart. He tried to think about nothing, tried to act like it was all right. Tried not to show how much of a mess he made him. And he developed all kinds of methods to succeed. And he got really good at it.
He ran into it more and more, and deeper and deeper, and it all got worse and worse. So he tried to try. Tried more. And when he thought it worked, he fell back again. And then he got angry. Cursed him, shouted at him during the phantasies in his head, tried everything to make him feel bad. Tried everything to make him feel just like he did himself. And then nothing worked anymore.
But then he decided it needed to work, so it worked. It really worked. He felt really good, really normal. He had become a friend, nothing more. And he tried again, tried to keep it working, and then the other one decided that it didn't work anymore, and again he fell back.
It was his fault. It builds up and falls down with only his decisions. It was always him and it always had been. He decided, if it worked, no matter what he did, no matter what he tried. And so feelings became anger. And he didn't want to be angry, but he really was. Because he made everything so much harder than it had to be.
And he knew how the other did it. It was just this one little thing. It was, because he never knew what he wanted. And the difference between them was that he actually thought about things. He spent hours and days and weeks and months with what would be the right thing to do, the right decisions. And it seemed the other didn't do that. He did his thing, no matter what it caused in other peoples' lives. He didn't think. And that was his problem. He himself wasn't the one being wrong, the other was. The other was the problem. And not just for all the people around him, but over all his own.
And Castiel tried not to lose his head. Wished he could just lie down flat and quiet on the cold floor and forget what was. Like a shadow, an outline nobody needed, until God picked him up. The only thing they knew was distance. They were close and then ran. Had kissed away the difference and tried not to lose themselves. Had packed everything they had, even when not much and a lot of emptiness in their inner homes. But a last, nearing towards the goal that he had only reached once. A last taboo. And a first of own will. No matter what thought, no matter what happened. And soft lips met another. And this is how stories end. Or maybe it just began.