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My Beloved World Destroyer | Take One
Mar. 16th, 2024 11:53 pmFrom Camila's perspective
There's something rather disturbing in the manner we talk to each other, me and her.
When we first met, our conversations stretched through cautious curiosity. Simple questions: "What's your favorite album?"; "How do play the violin so well?"; "What do you like so much about that song?" filled hours of conversation. If I'm being honest, I was the curious one. I'd ask, she'd answer. Not because she had no interest in me, but because watching her mind so effortlessly dance through passionate assertions mesmerized me. It's an ability I to this day long to have. Thus I'd ask again and again, and she'd answer again and again. It was a rather fetishistic affair, I guess. She provided me the pleasure of a speaking tongue, while I provide her with the pleasure of a listening ear.
If you can't beat them, join them.
There, though, came a time the questions ended. I hadn't understood her whole though, instead I had arrived at the limits of my own understanding. Her words slowly became too complex for me to grasp their meaning, terms too specific for me to adapt into my own thoughts. Before her steps guided me so easily through our usual routine, now she revolved under the spotlight as my wobbling legs struggled to keep up. This dreadful new reality took the innocent beauty of her monologues away, replacing it with a different kind of charm. I may have lost that warm waltz that shaped my happy afternoons, but I gained a competition to win.
If you can't beat them, join them.
So I trained, I ran, I studied her moves and adapted them into my own. Now it all seems so horribly stupid. Why would I ever make it into a race, when she had shot to start years before me? Nothing I did, nothing I said really mattered when she could express it with so much more grace. Not only through words, but also through song and sonata. I dreamed for so long of rivaling her, I wished so deeply to surpass her, that I had come to hate part of her. She never hated me though, because I never threatened her ego the way she did mine. She simply and earnestly loved me. That's what I hated most.
If you can't beat them, join them.
Then can't I just join her? If my life will reside in the background noise of her beautiful voice, can't I become another mouth for her to speak through? Won't that make my voice beautiful too?
Thus I give up. I give up speaking my own words. I give up thinking of my own melodies. I give up playing my own songs. I'll break it all with my own bruised hands if that's what it takes to empty myself, to become her vessel. As the pot helps the flower stand, and as the manure helps the garden grow. I'll devote my existence to her most hubrious dreams. They aren't too far away from my own after all.
There's something rather disturbing in the manner we talk to each other, me and her.
When we first met, our conversations stretched through cautious curiosity. Simple questions: "What's your favorite album?"; "How do play the violin so well?"; "What do you like so much about that song?" filled hours of conversation. If I'm being honest, I was the curious one. I'd ask, she'd answer. Not because she had no interest in me, but because watching her mind so effortlessly dance through passionate assertions mesmerized me. It's an ability I to this day long to have. Thus I'd ask again and again, and she'd answer again and again. It was a rather fetishistic affair, I guess. She provided me the pleasure of a speaking tongue, while I provide her with the pleasure of a listening ear.
If you can't beat them, join them.
There, though, came a time the questions ended. I hadn't understood her whole though, instead I had arrived at the limits of my own understanding. Her words slowly became too complex for me to grasp their meaning, terms too specific for me to adapt into my own thoughts. Before her steps guided me so easily through our usual routine, now she revolved under the spotlight as my wobbling legs struggled to keep up. This dreadful new reality took the innocent beauty of her monologues away, replacing it with a different kind of charm. I may have lost that warm waltz that shaped my happy afternoons, but I gained a competition to win.
If you can't beat them, join them.
So I trained, I ran, I studied her moves and adapted them into my own. Now it all seems so horribly stupid. Why would I ever make it into a race, when she had shot to start years before me? Nothing I did, nothing I said really mattered when she could express it with so much more grace. Not only through words, but also through song and sonata. I dreamed for so long of rivaling her, I wished so deeply to surpass her, that I had come to hate part of her. She never hated me though, because I never threatened her ego the way she did mine. She simply and earnestly loved me. That's what I hated most.
If you can't beat them, join them.
Then can't I just join her? If my life will reside in the background noise of her beautiful voice, can't I become another mouth for her to speak through? Won't that make my voice beautiful too?
Thus I give up. I give up speaking my own words. I give up thinking of my own melodies. I give up playing my own songs. I'll break it all with my own bruised hands if that's what it takes to empty myself, to become her vessel. As the pot helps the flower stand, and as the manure helps the garden grow. I'll devote my existence to her most hubrious dreams. They aren't too far away from my own after all.
