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> You and I - A boring story for Nicole
Lapetus
Posted: 2016-06-22, 10:21 AM


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(Well less of a story and more of a weird conversation...or something. I dunno, its drivel, but I promised a story and so this is the one Nicole gets.)


Two people, us two, stand atop a bridge. A solitary bridge, without any meaning or purpose, overlooking a rushing stream of drain water. Shores having been dug out with bulldozers and shovels and whatever kinds of machines construction crews used to dig ditches. As such there were no idyllic scenes of flowers and grass, only plain dirt with scraggly, tough plants and bits of garbage lying about. Empty bottles, torn plastic bags and Styrofoam cups, that sort of thing. It was a sight one of us was familiar with to the point of mind killing boredom, it was a scene the other thought nothing of.

“So...” I say, uncertain of what to do next.

“So...” You say, uncertain of what I should do next.

“They're late.” I point out, leaning over the bridge as if I'm interested in the view, as if that could be a possibility.

“They are.” You respond, having nothing to add. There being nothing to add to that. Speculating on 'they' or their lateness is inherently pointless.

Briefly there is silence, uncomfortable as both of us wrack our brains on how to dispel it. My gaze turns to you and an idea pops into my head. Simple words that normally I would not have the courage to say, and yet here, now I say them before I realize what I'm doing.

“Well at least I get to look at your cute face to pass the time.”

You react, in the typical way that you do to such things. “Shut up. I'm not cute at all.”

A familiar argument, one having exhausted every contingency. Yet I spark it up again.

“Nonsense, you are the cutest thing in this world. Your cuteness is a weapon of mass destruction. Ages from now when future cultures discover the remains of our society your cuteness shall be the most important archaeological discovery in all of history.” I say, as I turn to face you, making a wide gesture with my arms.

I am smiling, and speaking with a jovial tone, and filled with nothing but pointless bravado.

“Meanie.” You respond sullenly, “You shouldn't lie like that.”

“How rude.” I pretend to be offended. I pretend as though you could offend me. “I am the one truth in a world of lies.”

A boisterous claim, a superficial claim. Meaningless words of a charlatan trying to accomplish nothing.

“Uh-huh.” You mutterer, no doubt bored of the tired routine. Why should you have to put up with this here at the end, you wonder. “What does that even mean? You don't get me at all.”

My smile fades away. Vanishes as I realize the game is over, but you don't notice. “I get you better than anyone else.”

I lie.

“You don't understand anything about me.”

You lie.

“You...” I start to say something, but I stop.



“I'm not lying you know, you really are cute.” I say, though it is not what I want to say. I say it but I am not looking at you, I am looking at the disgustingly boring scene before me. Contemplatively, although you don't notice.

“No, you're most definitely lying. There is nothing cute or good about me.” You respond, though you are not looking at me. I do not notice the expression you are wearing.

“...”



Uncomfortable silence, the sort that superficial flash and flare cannot dispel, settles over us. Our relationship was never intimate, never sincere.

“I cannot love.” I say bluntly. Truthfully I'm unsure whether or not you are the same, you say that you have loved and been loved before. You seem to enjoy it, that sort of thing, while it lasts. I cannot fathom it, such a thing is so alien to me I cannot begin to understand. “So its alright to abandon me. I, was never capable of living in this world.”

Vulnerability, sincerity, truth. I hate such things, vehemently and sickeningly I hate such things. To show my true self is to lose, instead it is better to hide behind masks of artificial joy and sorrow.

“That's why you shouldn't do this with me, because you're different.”

Uncomfortable silence, the sort that makes me regret speaking. Nothing good comes from opening up, I don't need to be understood or loved. Living without being hated is enough, living a superficial life is good enough, even if its not good enough it is good enough. I acted without thinking, or by thinking too much, and did nothing but force uncomfortable feelings on you.

Nobody wants to see that part of other people, everyone only wants to have fun and enjoy their lives with others. Myself more than anyone.

“Who hurt you?” You ask again, missing the point.

I can't help but chuckle, dryly and sarcastically. No, that's a lie, I think it the appropriate action and therefore do it, cynically and through calculations. Incapable of being sincere, incapable of being honest. Even if I tell the truth I am not really honest.

“Its not who hurt me, but who I hurt.” I say, a truthful statement, but not an honest one.

“I... even if I want to be special to someone that feeling isn't love. Its only my selfish co-dependence.” My voice shakes uncharacteristically, as in it defies the character I built up for myself. Happy, cheerful, insightful and friendly, such a foolish character. A bit of a tease, perhaps, but not cruel. A superficial character, for superficial relationships. “I wanted to be special to you too, you know. Irreplaceable, or something like that, but I realized something a long time ago. That feeling will only end up hurting others, will only end up hurting myself. How could I have ever thought such a disgusting feeling was love?”

Do you understand? Probably not, but that's fine. I don't smile, I think I should give a sort of longing smile here, but I don't. I regret what I just said, it is nothing more than boring nonsense, it is just me forcing my uncomfortable feelings onto you.

“...”



“You...” You start to say something, but then stop.

“You are different from me.” I admit, uncharacteristically truthful today, not honest, but truthful. “Hey, what do you think psychologist will do if they find out suicidal patients are cutting themselves?”

“Are you cutting yourself?” You ask, comically concerned considering what we are here for.

“No, I mean hypothetically. I don't cut myself, I hate pain.” You look unconvinced, so I show you my arms.

“They'd make them stop, I guess. Lock them up far away from blades or something.” You answer, unsure of where I'm going with this.

“Right, that's what you'd think. But its the opposite. You see cutting is a coping mechanism, so when a person is cutting they are trying to cope with the world. That means they haven't given up, even if they are suffering, even if they are unable to live, they are still trying to cry for help, to cope.”

“...”

There is nothing to be said to that, rather it is so morbid that you can only wonder where I'm going with it.

“That's the difference.” I proclaim, the bravado from before returning.

“The difference?” You quizzically inquire.

“Between you and I, my dear, cute creature. You are miserable, sure, but you haven't surrendered. You whine, and moan, and curse the world and yourself, posting emo messages on internet boards and cries for help in sad facebook memes.”

“I'm not an emo!” You snap, offended by so many things I just indelicately said.


“That means that you still want to be helped, to be loved and saved and live in this world. Its when you start hiding away those things, pretending that they don't exist and insisting that everything is fine that things become a problem. When you start thinking that you can't let anyone know about what you feel, because they might try to stop you. Its when you start hiding behind masks of superficiality that...”

I wasn't really sure where I was going with this, but I stop. I climb atop the railing of the bridge, and with outstretched arms turn wildly and carelessly to face you. “They are late.”

“Yes, they are.” You say, as there is nothing to add to that. “You, it might be pointless to ask this now, but are you alright.”

“Yes.” I lie. “I'm perfectly fine.”

“Good. You worry me sometimes.” You lie.

“You know, I wasn't lying then.” I say, wanting at least one thing to be honest. “You are cute.”

“Nope, that was definitely a lie. A silly lie spoken by a deceiving charlatan wearing a superficial mask.” You respond.

I can't really reject those accusations, because even if I was telling the truth I am a deceiving charlatan wearing a superficial mask. So I jump, from the railing. Perhaps I had intended to jump back, into the roaring torrent below, and end myself. Sometimes that feels like an inevitable conclusion, to end this boring life in such a boring way in such a boring place. Yet, instead I jump forward, back unto the bridge.

Our relationship is no doubt superficial, with only brief interludes of sincerity. That is no doubt my fault. Truthfully I can't say whether either of us mean anything significant to the other, I'd like to think we do but cannot fathom what that is like. Even so I find myself entertained, in an uncaring and unappealing world. I enjoy you, even if I cannot love you, and perhaps it is a bit selfish but sometimes I hope that you enjoy me too.

It is not romantic, by any means, and perhaps it is not even irreplaceable, but it is something that is necessary for me.


“Nope, I am most assuredly telling the truth. Let it be stated without contest that you are by a sizable margin the absolute cutest thing in the universe. Take it from me, the most trustworthy man on the planet who has multiple PhD’s in the study of cuteness and adorable traits, that you are certifiably, undeniably cute. So much so that I am going to no doubt win a Nobel prize once I publish my findings for discovering that this level of cute could exist on this plane of existence.”

“No!” You respond with pretend anger.

“Yes!” I respond, with exaggerated passion.

Our argument goes along like this for a while, until a van pulls up. A boring story, a meaningless conversation, comes to a close as a private moment between you and I becomes a lively moment with them. Awkwardness melts into fun times with fun friends. I forget my problems, you ask for help with yours, and we both go on living.

“Perhaps,” I say to you. “One day I could be like you, one day I could strive to be understood?”

“You're an idiot.” You say, no doubt in jest, but I can't really disagree.

If I ever wanted to be understood by someone then it would no doubt be you.
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