Thanatos

Eyes are such wonderful creations. Together they open and close like butterfly wings. They speak the words that lips could not. You could drown in them, remain their captive long after you have stopped looking, and Bethlehem had the most captivating eyes I had ever seen.

She is sixty eight years old but her eyes look only sixteen, as though she has never really stopped making her discoveries. There are crows’ feet in the corners of those eyes, remnants of long ago smiles and templates for smiles yet to come. Time thought it would disfigure her face, but it only made her look happier, even in her sleep.

Sleep, the indispensible Theif, stealing away half of everybody’d lives, but at the same time the generous Giver that allows you to live the other half. You close your eyes. You lose yourself to your uninhibited unconscious, desperately seeking to break free. You experience a piece of heaven or hell in your dreams and nightmares. You wake up wondering, which was the dream? which was reality? Nobody can sleep or dream for you. It is yours alone, a personal experience, a Death rehearsal. We practice one each night.

Gethsamane wished Beth would wake up from her dream. He jealously cherished every minute they spent together that anything that kept her away was a rival to him, even her sleep. Like a tall, time-worn pillar of some ancient ruin, he stood next to her chair, holding her soft, delicate hand, watching the sun as it tucked itself behind its blanket of clouds. It’s so easy for the sun to wave goodbye. Everyone knows it will wave hello again the next day. But when you’re old and your body is worn out, even if you pretend to be a tall pillar of an ancient ruin with a steadfastness that can survive centuries, Time will weather you down, slowly, but ever so surely.

I held Bethlehem’s other hand as if to say, I’m not letting go this time, my darling. Blinking her eyes open, she looked at me for half a second and I knew she understood. When Gethsemane held her close, I knew he understood as well. I had been his rival for two years now. I want her. I want to lose myself in her unsettling yet comforting eyes. I want her smile, the one that made Gethsemane’s heart transform into a million butterflies. I want all of her, and Gethsemane knows it. He hates me because of it. I can’t blame him.

She was the greatest discovery he has ever made of himself. Knowing how much he can love was her gift. knowing how much she can forgive was his. He would look into her eyes and he would always see himself, and it was her heart he saw, not his reflection. I understood that. They belonged to each other. Why else would it take me two years to steal her away? A love that strong will never let go.

In fact, when I pulled her away into my embrace, the ancient pillar broke. I gave her but a gentle tug and she could only kiss him. Eternity summarized in a kiss, and he broke. She welcomed me, you see. She embraced me back, her new lover. She looked at me and I saw his face in her eyes, but I was enchanted nonetheless. She smiled at me and a million butterflies fluttered where a heart should be. She kissed me and my eternity was summarized in a moment.

Gethsemane could not believe it. It tore away all his foundations, everything that kept him standing. She kissed me and the ancient pillar who thought he could survive centuries tumbled down like a sand castle washed away by the waves. It was such a beautiful sight, a broken heart. His eyes glistened with tears like the night sky filled with stars. But when I looked beyond the tears, I saw her face, as clearly as though it has made its home there. His lips trembled with the inevitable pain of farewell. His heart slowed down like a dying whisper. I could almost hear the tinkle of its shattered pieces, like the music from wind chimes that people hung from their windows. He was so breathtakingly, heartbreakingly beautiful that I wasn’t surprised when I realized I wanted him too.

His tears were gemstones that fell freely and disappeared the moment you tried to catch them. Nothing could be more precious than that.

I could only hold his hand.

He remembered the first time they made love a long, long time ago. It was like a prayer. There were no words, no begging for mercy for limitless sins committed again and again, no invocations or adorations of heavenly heirarchies. Just the bodily expression of a peice of heaven that found its way in two people gone wild with love. It was the first prayer he ever truly wanted answered, the first prayer that ever truly made perfect sense to him. They heard it Up There, but they did not need an answer. It was enough that he realized it was at that moment when he knew that his life was already complete.

I held his hand, but Gethsemane was so broken, he embraced me in return. I was the only one left for him to hold on to. I wasn’t surprised. I would have been disappointed, otherwise. So I welcomed him. I knew he was ready for me. Nobody could sleep for you. Nobody could dream your dreams for you. Your death is yours alone. Who are we to judge the people who choose to end their lives when they truly have nothing more to live for?

With Bethlehem on my right arm and Gethsemane in the other, there was nothing left for me to do but spread my wings and carry them off to that place beyond the horizon where souls wake up from their long earthly slumber to wonder, which was the dream and which was reality?

written March 24, 2006