The Oblivion

Summary:It's moments like these – a flit, merely a flicker in time where you realise he was something to you. You'll meet him one day, that boy with diamond eyes and wayward charm. [it's all between You and Him.

For Kersh

Oh it's hard to resist
on a night like this
impossible to withstand
when you're holding my heart in your hand.

- DeVotchKa, "The Oblivion"

There's a moment – there's always a moment where infinity stretches out, ballooning, melding into the deepest night sky. In that moment, you can either choose to fall headfirst into its eternal depths or resist its decadent allure.

There's a boy – there's always a boy. You'll meet him one day, that boy with diamond eyes and wayward charm. You'll have known him for a day, a week, a year, and his departure or, rather, that reluctant movement away from him, will leave you breathless (he's the dark and charming type). You'll be gasping, pulling for the very air whose infinite abyss you chose not to fall into – tiny little breaths that no one knows you're missing, but you can feel that quickening of your pulse and you know that This Is It. You can envision him smirking in the darkness; you want to fling it into the atmosphere, scream it out so loudly that you exhale more than careless noise; rather, you want to see every stroke, line, character of these words that you feel so much for. As if you're the wall and every so often, he'll reach with his worldly fingers and pieces of scrape you away ever-so-slightly; the damage will never show.

It's the feeling of knowing and believing, though you know that you don't know anything, but you know that he is possibly both the highlight and hindrance of your life. The great chasm that the human psyche is – it's tainted by the betrayed sighs, clothes dumped carefully, knowingly, straight into the wash, the hints and simultaneously, it's that naivety that comes along with your first …something, you suppose. Whatever the hell he is. No matter when, that naivety is will crash into you and mould and weave you into this stuttering mess (oh, how the mighty have fallen).

You'll feign ill or perhaps you are ill – self-betrayal is undoubtedly the worst kind of betrayal. He'll want to pull you apart himself, to see the cheap watercolours, quick-dry - "one box containing 14 assorted shades" - your sinews, veins running awry (053 Carmine 449 Vermillion Hue Crimson); all rough edged (236 Lemon Yellow? 084 Chrome Yellow Hume with a dash of 075 Chinese White?) and push them together gingerly, carefully. (You think you die a little more that day.)

You'll remember him for those first memories that he inadvertently bestowed, unknowingly pushing you, and you're folding here and now. You upped the ante, you slipped and for some ugly, ugly reason, you're on cloud nine.

You'll remember him for those soft little sighs, and butterflies (you could never suppose how a tumultuous stomach would equate into butterflies, but nevertheless, that's what they were).

It's moments like these – a flit, merely a flicker in time where you realise he was something to you. Similarly styled hair, or a grin – he was never exactly original – or a meaningless line in a song. The cheap coincidence, or perhaps, the cheap irony of trying to forget him --- that ended so well; good job, old girl.

The pounding beasts, the restlessness – a weathered frame encased with it a lifetime – memoirs of the affair. Only, it hasn't quite materialised – it's encased deeply within a hardened shell of glossamer woven from hope and glass.

He could be a holiday boy, a once-upon-a-midnight-dream boy, a weekend boy, or the unfortunate-struggle-of-knowing-you-always boy, but he'll be immortalised as the boy with diamond eyes, of tugging grins; the forever kind.

It kills you because for you, he's everlasting, but he's not yours – he'll never be yours to save. He's not one of those children that you're compelled to save when you think you're Miss Fix-It; You Against The World.

Saudade. Which is, ideally, a kind of intense sorrow, a yearning, and nostalgia – for those who are missing, or vanished times – that only Portuguese speakers are meant to understand. Somehow, in some sample of expression evolution, the meaning was misplaced – it vanished into a side street between pop culture terrace and metropolitan avenue; an instance of childhood curiosity led this word to your language-riddled persona. You wonder how there's so many adjectives that you can juxtapose with a noun, or the correct positioning of semicolons, commas, but he's only human, and you can't figure him out.

You're standing (aching, longing) in the middle of this infernal long road that only overpaid, overmarketed psychologists speak of, with tiny droplets of hope clinging to your idealistic face and bright eyes.

It's in that very moment that you resist oblivion, because these bittersweet memories, aflame, are unforgettable.