Love is Pain



On the morning of the 29th of October, 2014, walking on his way to his university, the cruel and indifferent man remembers the excruciating pain of love as he sets his eyes upon Her for the first time in three years. Time stands still for as long as the intersection light keeps venerating blood. He should have talked; he should have touched; he should have kissed; he should have raped. He should have cared. He should have done absolutely anything for the single purpose of being able to look at Her for one more second, one more day, one more lifetime. But he loses yet another chance at doing anything other than standing idle. She goes away.

 

Inside of him, the desire to die is struggling with the desire to catch as little as one last glimpse of Her in his life, a clash between despair and resignated despair, and the first desire, bastard child of the man's free-spirited personality, is only an imperceptible shadow crawling at the feet of the all-powerful and protective father of the second. Yet the insidious fight keeps on, unresolved, and the man, unfocused all day long, aimlessly opens an extravagant number of doors by hitting them with his fists as hard as he can, celebrating the resulting soothing pain and blood, and aimlessly writes this story rather than actually pay attention to fonction optimisation lessons. The man wants to search for Her in the university. To prevent himself from doing what he wants to do, the man invents himself new excuses to be weak, which exacerbates his anger, his pain and his dementia. It is unknown how such a man, a man craving to fight is fears, may it be heights, snakes or the void of existence, how such a man could be afraid of one single effeminate and sickly thin white girl. Beauty is no defense to experienced fists. And yet it is. She would never need somebody as unpleasant, aggressive and unattractive as him. He would never need somebody weak and ignorant in the ways of pain. And yet he would never consciously hurt Her, or even lose Her time by opening his fetid mouth and producing hideous sounds. Such is the strength of his feeling.

 

Maybe he is confused? Couldn't this "love" be a chemical reflex which helps assure to the species a steady influx of newborns? Couldn't this "love" be a mere projection that he created as a way to help him accept the idea he would enjoy to try to stop the eternal loneliness of his life? The man knows that every single attempt at denying at himself his feeling is forgotten every single time he looks at Her.

 

And yet he keeps on doing it; and his mind, made of metal, a precise set of mechanisms, gets melted again and again while resisting what it wants; and his body, trembling at the simple idea of Her, it knows what it wants, and nothing but the harshest control and intimidation lets the mind keep its evermore increasingly irrational control over it; and no matter how special and painful the feeling is, the man realises that, in this very real life, the only way over-sensitivity will ever be met, on any matter, will be with laughter, incredulity or utter indifference; and no matter how special and painful this feeling is, the man realises that no combination of action or words will give him possession of what he desires; nothing inside of him as ever been about communication, sensitivity, or intimacy; and so, as the man remembers and feels the terrible feeling which destroyed his life and his mind, and as the man realises his feeling is completely one-sided, and as the man realises his feeling could not possibly be anything other than one-sided, and as the man realises he would probably be bored of Her if they ever were to speak together and learn things about each other, and as the man relentlessly seeks critical and logical objections to his feeling, he hates himself for being the way he is, and hopelessly dreams of catching as little as one last glimpse of Her in his life.

 

And that, kids, is how I never met the mother I wanted you to have.


2018-09-04 16:31:20
Renaud Olivier Chouinard