...Don't let go...

The mystery is nowhere better portrayed than here. This beautiful portrait is from one of the greatest stories ever told: Fushigi Yuugi, The Mysterious Play-Universe of the Four Gods. Suboshi grasps his older twin, Amiboshi tightly. There is possession: Suboshi owns Amiboshi. There is passion: the connection between the twins is symbollically held and seperated. There is acceptance: Amiboshi stands strong as his brother feeds from their love. It must be so strange to have sensations like the ones shared by these two young boys, and stirred by the passion of this painting. Amiboshi stands tall, as if honored by the sensation, but simulteanously weakened. He is left rolling the emotion over in his mind. Suboshi is enraptured and drunk on the same sensation. He is too high on its mesmerism to let go. I have felt what they feel. I have known myself to be the opiate; the drug for a user who I cherish and would sacrifice anything for. This is for the one, drunk on my passion. I cannot, however, deny my own addiction. That recklessness and that subservience that is being the used fills my heart. I need to be longed, and would die if I did not hang on, like a hook who pierces the heart. I long to be the obsession of the heart of a faithless dreamer.
Let me introduce the...

"Lucky you were born that far away so we could both make fun of distance. Lucky that I love a foreign land for the lucky fact of your existence."
-Shakira "Suerte (Whenever Wherever)

I had walked in expecting a fun time. The room was very dark, with mahogony wood panelling, and muddy carpeting. The foam tiles in the ceiling caputured the light leaving behind a diseased speakling in each crevice. The flourescent lights in the ceiling were useless, as they were drowned out by the white light of a fall sun, filtering through the tan drapes across the southwardly windows. I took my seat opposite the door at the outermost table that circled along the walls. Standing at the podium was a short, slightly portly man, with a beard and moustache. We would come to know him as a good double for Mario in a few days, for without his beard, he looked like he should eat a mushroom and date a blonde. The class, Intro to Drama, was the only offered course that would fullfill the necessary speaking credit. The class was composed of a fine mix of students, some of whom for the first time I had seen take an interest in class. Everyone was desperate for a moment in the sun. There was a beautiful burnette who would be Lady Macbeth to my Shakespearean Hag, and a maid with hair that shames the red red rose, and whose love is foretold in legend. There in this circus of grunge-goths, punks, preps, and sluts, I sat, just another victim of a social society. I was at the height of my prefered solitude, accompanied occaisionally by those elite who I considered friends, not because they would have me, but because I was riding high on the anti-social wave. Mario spoke to us in a feisty fashion. Rude and vulger, he makes a good mentor and a twisted uncle of a figure. His rantings of poetry carried on that day to initially intent ears, but soon fell deaf on the less interested. Than the project came.
Obviously, teachers make first projects easy, not to allow for comfort, but for their own understanding of security. "Find a Partner, and in one week, you will tell us about that person." Familiarity would assure that I would at least get to know the name of some person. Who though? I knew no-one in the class, outside as some faces to whom names could be roughly attached. My answer, both to ease my own pain, and to allow for a simple answer to another person's question, I sacrificed myself to whoever asked, or didn't have the courage to hunt. Little did I know that my sacrifice wouldn't matter, for I had already been targetted, hunted, and was about to be slaughtered.
A youth sat across from me, with hair of sunshine gold, and eyes that glimmered on skystone, nestled in an ancient, and very pixie-ish socket. The skin rolled over on the edges, and the long blonde lashes curled out, adding a shadow that drew from the seam of the lids, out along the side of the head. For each beat that I sat waiting silently, he stayed put. Right before the teacher asked, it seemed appearent that this was the person I would be partnered with. Our submissions were quick and quiet. The hunt was quite different however. After the setting of luna, and Ra's return, I met with the youth during lunch. I had seen him the day before, merely walking around. Today, again, I sat on my bench, drawing paper in hand, lunch at my side. We congregated, and after a short period, he had taken into account everything that he would bother asking about. He was very quite, with little to say, and less that he would bother to.
After the week had passed, I had barely beaten out of him the minimul answers. Even with tactics of philosophical wishes, the answers would be no longer than a 5 word sentance. Names, dates, places, and all other forms of nouns were rattled off. Movies and books were alien to me, or with little that one could really learn more about. Music was simply answered by alternative. I hated that word. It was a sound that reminded me of Nirvana, and Blind Melon: bands that I was staunchly against at the moment. They sounded of noise with no joy, not at all like my shallow 80's pop, with its constant and fun loving rhythm. There before the class, I sat in the leather arm chair of Mr. Mario, the alienated youth behind me. His words seemed almost cold as he read from the sheet he had prepared. It looked as if he hadn't even rewritten what I had told him. Rattling off answers left and right, the answers came as simply as I had given him. My turn at him was quite different. The simple notes, freshly written, would have been over only momentarily, had it not been for my choice to delve into my occult studies. At the time, I was a wiccan with little more than a fairy book, a simple spell book, and a fortune tellng kit. His Name, by some number system whose source I cannot name here, equaled 9, which, as I stated, and would be later questioned on, was a special number for it was the holy number, taken as many times as it is holy. He was a Cancer, and they tended to be shy and recluse. I of course, had no arguement with astrology after the display I had been put through of consistent silent answers. At the mention of music, I declared his interest, and as part of a cruel joke, and partially reflecting on my own ignorance of the subject, I jumped up and down, headbanging and screaming. I was cynical. With the youth's history in my hands, I became entranced with getting him to not be so shy. Than came lunch.
At first I wasn't sure what he was thinking. All I really knew were my desires, which were saying that you shouldn't stop talking just because the project was over. Now the tables turned, and the carcass that had been hunted stood tall, claws ready, and heavy on the trail of blood. I followed him and we sat together, and kept talking...
...that is, I kept on talking. As always he was very silent. Sometimes I wondered if my words ever sunk in past ear drum. I don't even remember how many conversational sparks were lit before even one took to a flame. I took hope in that he seemed interested in the creativity of my mind. I drew, and wrote, which he seemed to desire. From than on, most of the conversations related around the concept of exploring the creativity of his, and my mind alike. One of the greatest tools for this was a recent creation of mine. I had just finished my "novel". What a sad thing it was. Nineteen pages, cliched plot. I admit that there were a few interesting twists, but I found it a little short. Somehow, however, it kept us talking for hours on end. Many days I would wonder did he even care, or was he going to kill me if I mentioned it again. I started feeling guilty that perhaps my obsessiveness was going to hurt this friendship. Somehow, my obsessiveness to keep it was enough for him to entertain the thought of an alliance. The truth was, the he himself fell to the same trap. Absorbed by thoughts, and filled with imagination, he sought out a life without limitations. The freedom and passion that drove this warrior was lit with the fires of honor and dignity, fashioned from the very will of a god. He was a prince of wills, feeling alienated and alone in a world of simpletons who didn't understand the imagination, the will, the desire, and the passion. He had lost faith in the ideas of some form of others understanding, and dreamt of some other answer. The sophist pushed himself further into recess. Somehow I had stumbled across it, his treasure, him. Now what?

I don't know how it happens, but we have eyes like twins. Our very thoughts seem to correlate to the second. Perhaps it is because of our similar breeding, or that we just have been friends for so long. It just seems that for as long as I can remember, it has never been beyond us to finish the others sentences (even thought that particular phenomenon has never occured.) To often I will voice something that he voices only an echoes time later. We are in synchronization. One of our greatest shared worries is that somehow, in using the other, we have hurt him. I never want to speak to loudly, or in opposition, and neither does he. It is rare, however, that such a worry really need come up, in that we rarely are in opposition. Even when we are, however, we know better than to blame the other, or think to much of it. It is almost entirely for the drama that we even dare to spar. It is good to voice rage. It allows for balance. But how do we do it as to not lose the other? We act alone, but don't entertain the thought of being apart long. I trust that with him, it will all work out in the end. I trust him.