Boys Like Flowers Too

symbiotic people

IX
      LATER THAT NIGHT, dark-boy found himself at the bar he occasionally frequented whenever sleeplessness got to be unbearable. He was restless and listless at the same time. What he wanted was to be preoccupied no longer with his thoughts but with something tangible, something with texture and a heartbeat. Cillian knew he was not bad-looking; he knew he wouldn't have to pretend to nurse his drink for long before something with a heartbeat would come to claim a seat beside him. Sometimes it would be a young woman, but more often than not it was one older than himself. He wasn't completely sure as to the reason behind this, but he suspected it had to do with his more callous demeanour (older women were hardened by experience). He didn't mind this, in fact he favoured it. These women were always alone; he respected how independent they were, it was what he liked most about them. He also liked that they had obvious flaws; as such they would treat him with care, polish his youthfulness with a graceful gaze and reflect it back to him with their touch. He was precious to them, but only for a night. After that they had no use for a creature who reminded them of their age. He liked this too. The woman before him now was no exception.

      The problem with man is that he often forgets that he is ultimately alone not by any fault in his design, but by the very nature of his existence. He surrounds himself with as many friends, family, affairs, even foes, as he can to defend himself from the realisation that no matter how many friends, family, affairs, foes he has, by the time he closes his eyes at night, he is utterly alone. It matters not even the person sleeping next to him, who's air they exhale, he inhales; his dreams do not notice them there. Togetherness is only superficial, barely skin-deep. This is man's most pernicious imperfection; it is in this failing that his hamartia takes dynamic form, controlling every interaction he will ever embark on in his life. Today it is known that there is a symbiotic relationship between fungal colonies and the roots of plants. Similar to the nervous system of an animal, trees are able to communicate with each other by an underground labyrinth of biological networking. In 1983, it was discovered that poplars and sugar maple trees were able to warn each other of dangerous insects. At the University of British Columbia, it was found that the Douglas fir tree and paper birches were even capable of exchanging nutrients. If it were not for this network, some seedlings may never make it to maturity. Researchers will suggest that the trees of the forest and the mushrooms found next to them are so interconnected, that it is hard for them to see trees as individual entities any longer.

      This kind of union could never be achieved between two people, yet when man meshes his body with that of another, is this not what he is striving for? Is he not trying to crawl inside the nervous system of another? When man wants to understand the mind of another, is he not trying to crawl across their synapses to arrive at his destination neuron? There is only so far he can crawl. It is not his fault, he is limited by his biology; still he blames himself all the same. Perhaps this was what Cillian found most comforting about strangers. When two people are strangers, it is only natural to assume that they are both alone in that they know nothing of one another. There is no illusion of togetherness. One's loneliness becomes an unambiguous sentence. Maybe this was what perturbed Cillian so about Oliver Daley, because he did not wish to be a stranger to Oliver Daley. If Cillian were a tree, a willow or a sycamore, he could be grounded, in symbiosis with Oliver, who, he imagined, would be a bluebell or other. But it was true that he was not a tree, and Oliver was not a bluebell. This was what perturbed him so.

      Cillian thought the woman might have told him her name at some point, but he could not remember it now. He remembered her house number, and the general direction the taxi driver took to get them there, he remembered the colour of her sheets, and the shape her mouth made when it cried out beneath him. She did not call his name; maybe she too had forgotten. Names were not necessary in these places anyway. All garments, including one's name, must be left at the foot of the bed and collected only in the morning.

      Afterwards, he waited for her to fall asleep, admiring the magnificent slope of her side, starting at the shoulders down to her waist, then back up again to her hips. Her silhouette, that startling landscape as noble as the French Alps. How proud of her he was, this stranger. Both beautiful and foreboding even in sleep. He tucked the sheets around her gently as he could, then he gathered his things and left. He didn't look back, because he would never need to return. He had no desire to be alone together with this woman. He had no desire to be her tree.

A/N j a draft. J a draft