The Metaphysicist (Kill Your Darlings) | Featured

excuse me curfew is at 4:20

Lucien received what he came to the bar to receive: an escape. He received the perfect portions of being fucked both by recklessness and by a man he had never seen before in his entire life, a man he trusted nonetheless because he was only using him to gain what he had lost, and through all of this apparent gratification, Lucien has never felt more sordid than he does in this moment, striding across the sidewalk in a tube as cold as it was when he strode towards the bar to pick up this impenetrable layer of guilt, striding towards his apartment and towards his friend who had no fucking idea that he was wasting an existence as precious as Lucien Carr's, an existence that could have sparked other people's existence, and though that is not his duty, it is his skill set, but it is being wasted on booze and a carefree attitude in a world where it is imperative that he cares at least a little bit, because sooner or later he'll be dead, but with the state of things, it will be the former, and I will have no idea what the hell happened to my spunky roommate who used to believe in the world.

It is fairly evident that Lucien stores just enough faith in me that he will feel remorse for what he has done and what he will do, but that's still not enough faith for him to persuade himself against his current route of regrettable actions that will inevitably tear my life apart and send me back to the basement of Jack and Edie's house where I was lonelier than the majority of the world on Valentine's Day. I can't return to that, not when every day with Lucien is Valentine's Day, not when I've glimpsed too much life to cage myself in a dark box of writing articles for phonies, not when I've seen a lot yet not an adequate amount to survive on my own, not when Lucien Carr is the only person I have to keep me afloat, a buoy chained to the sand by force in the middle of a hurricane but making the best out of his innate abilities, though it appears that his innate abilities either aren't suitable enough or are withering away.

At least he has the decency to show up at the apartment again to put my worries to rest, though he'll probably introduce even more worries to me than before, but with my determination to fix him, I'll do my best to resolve those, too. However, as Lucien ascends the steps to the apartment and I rush out to greet him after being absent for the night, I realize that fixing him may be close to impossible.

He does not speak immediately, instead grasping the opportunity to search my face for the intentions of kicking him out of my life, intentions that are as absent as he was last night, but he is melancholy nevertheless, melancholy enough to ask a question burdened by twenty-four years of living with a writer's' soul "If I am a master of spontaneous beginnings, and you are a master of tragic endings, then where is the middle to preserve our relationship? There isn't enough time for us." The canoe named Lucien's voice snaps, and he plunges into the icy river of tears, thrashing within them in the hopes of embracing me, but when he finally does, it is not reassuring or warm or tender. It is as cold as his heart, the whimpering child of hypothermia from one's own indomitable distress, and I almost comment on it, then stopping myself because I know that Lucien is aware of it too and hates it just the same as I do.

I have forgotten how silence tastes on the cliff of my tongue, how unsettling it is to scream with no sound, but we are not speaking when we write, and that is why we always get away with documenting our opinions, because even with cloth over our mouths we continue to flex our fingers towards the freedom of mind.

I'm lost now, because my computer is nowhere to be seen, and it is my sole duty to speak with my mouth, not my fingers. I have no fucking idea how to proceed, but Lucien is still waiting as if I do. I'm not as strong as he thinks I am. I'm just a stupid writer from Paterson, New Jersey who happened to stumble upon something worthwhile. That's it, or at least that should be it, because now I'm wrapped in this pit of dread and miscommunication, and there is never any clarity in a writer's mind, especially when they are together.