The Unbearable Heaviness of Being - 1. The Unbearable Heaviness of Being

I woke up in a cold sweat, panting raggedly. I looked over at the figure next to me—at his perfect face, his cute button nose, his sleeping eyelids that hid piercing turquoise eyes, his soft lips that whispered gentle words to me wherever I was. Shaking, I quietly pushed the duvet off of me and padded down the hall to the bathroom. When the sun shone through the Venetian blinds – the light playing off the steam from the shower – and the air smelt of him and all his European perfumes, I loved that bathroom.

Now, in the dead of night, with only the harsh illumination of fluorescent lighting, that room was stark—like an operating room or a morgue. I looked into the tall, frameless mirror, and the image reflected was not that of myself surrounded by the chic, ultra-modern white marble of our bathroom, but that of my most private thoughts engulfed by an infinitude of clinical, cold, harsh, biting, unforgiving white.

That white was at once a prison and a vast freedom, as ageless as a mountain of granite and as transient as a mote of dust. It bore all the solitude of the world, all the dispassion, all of the emotion – or lack thereof – that colour simply couldn’t express. I looked at the whiteness that dwarfed my soul, and I felt fear. Not fear because of pain or because of conflict, but fear because the achromatic expanse promised only isolation as my eyes searched in vain for any sign of comfort.

And then there was something. It – whatever it was – spun, and in place of the terrifying emptiness, there was a road, a tree-lined neighborhood road, in which two people stood. I was at once a participant and an onlooker. But as far as my consciousness was concerned, I was just a silent observer, watching the events unfold, powerless to alter the outcome. And I knew the outcome, but still I was forced to watch.

“You can’t let me take all the blame!” he shouted. “We both broke that window.”

“Shit,” I cursed. “You know my parents. They’ll ground me for, like, ever if they find out I broke Mr. Henderson’s window. Your parents are cool, man; they won’t do anything.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” he snapped.

“Easy?”

“Sorry,” he said in a more gentle tone, reaching to place a hand on my shoulder. “You know that’s not how I meant it.”

But I didn’t listen; I was already walking down the street.

As quickly as the scene had materialized, it melted back into the endless void. The common assumption is that voids are black, abyssal things, but this void was white; the clinical precision with which it dissected my soul infinitely more terrifying than the unknown daemons of blackness. I was lost inside my own mind, and I was powerless to return to the harshness of reality; I was doomed to surreal indifference. I floated there, on display to whichever particular anamnesis decided to haunt me next. It felt like a long time before the limitless whiteness drained into a finite world of colour, but inside the mind, time has a funny meaning.

The strobe lights were flickering, and everything slowed to a series of camera shots. Every moment in time was captured in my mind as a photograph…a photograph of him. We stood on opposite sides of the dance floor, neither one of us dancing. Sandra, my date, had long since left my arm; he had come alone. He had come alone because I would not let him come with me. Friends met at the dance; they didn’t come together. That was for couples. And we were not a couple. He was a boy. I was a boy.

“Hey,” he said casually. It was too casual, but the façade pleased me. I couldn’t handle any more of his insipid declarations that he loved me; he obviously didn’t understand love. He was a boy. I was a boy.

“See any single hotties?” I asked with a wink and a nudge.

“Are you trying to hurt me?” There was no accusation in his voice, just sorrow. Misplaced sorrow; he would understand that I was right, in time.

“I would never hurt you,” I replied honestly. He was my best friend, of course I didn’t want to hurt him. He just didn’t realize that he was only hurting himself.

“You already have,” he said, his turquoise eyes looking into my icy ones. I looked back, unwavering, and saw all the things he had stopped trying to tell me in words. I wanted to help him, but I couldn’t, not in the way he wanted me to. Because he was a boy. And I was a boy.

“I’m sorry,” he called as I turned. “I promised I wouldn’t talk about that. Let’s just ditch this dance and go have some fun.”

I walked out the door.

Even if I had had eyes in that stark reflection of reality – of my reality, at least – I wouldn’t have cried. I saw that scene all the time; it tormented me when I was awake, when I dreamt. When I saw that scene, I raged tragically against the cosmos during my lucid moments and bitterly against him during my incoherent ones.

Now, too balanced to be insane yet too hallucinatory to be lucid, I wasn’t sure what to rage against. But I had infinite amounts of time to drift, thinking. With that scene as clear as it was the day I lived it, I had no choice to deny any of things I did. I tried to blame him, but the emptiness mocked me; it had forever to wait for me to see the truth. I tried to blame the universe, but I just saw the image of myself walking away – over and over and over. It was only as my mind reluctantly broached the third possibility – that it was my fault, with all its terrifying implications—that my time to think was up.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” he sighed, gesturing to the glacial stream wending its way through the alpine pasture where we sat.

“It is,” I agreed. But not because of the stream; it was the same as any other stream. It was beautiful because there was nobody else there but us. I didn’t have to face the constant judgments and expectations of people. Here, I could be someone that I feared to be, even in the darkest recesses of my own mind. Here, I could be me.

“Say it,” he said, after a long silence.

“I love you,” I smiled. How I knew he loved to hear those words – words I had only said once. Except his smile wasn’t the radiant one I expected.

“I know that,” he laughed gently. “Even if you never tell me. Say it.”

“It?” I repeated hollowly. All I wanted was to enjoy the day and his company without thinking of the implications. I didn’t want to talk about the hard stuff; I wanted quiet acceptance.

“It,” he affirmed.

I sighed heavily and lifted my arm from around his shoulders. He turned to look at me quizzically, but I had already thrown my bag over my shoulders.

“Oh, fuck you!” he screamed suddenly, breaking the silence of the wilderness. I didn’t respond; I just continued my preparations for the long hike back to the bottom. “There’s not a fucking soul for miles! Say it! Say you’re gay!”

His voice cracked as he started to tear up, but I didn’t see the tears go from silent pearls of rain to raging rivers of sorrow; I just walked down the mountain.

The white became simultaneously an operating table and a gruesome, horrifying slab of marble. As I watched my soul get dissected and put on display for the harshest critic of all, I came face to face with memories that I had willed myself to ignore. It wasn’t other people I feared; it was what was inside myself.

Anyone can reflect superficially on the mistakes of their past, but no one who has had real loss or experienced real suffering can truly look back without experiencing significant pain, pain that is only compounded by guilt, regret and ‘what ifs.’ There comes a time in every man’s life when a decision that will alter the course of his life must be made. That crossroad can be subtle, with only a slight divergence between the paths, or it can have flashing lights pointing the way. The problem isn’t finding the right path; it’s having the courage to walk it.

“If you get on that plane, it’s over.”

I froze in place, caught between his voice – the indescribable hurt, frustration and anger in it – and the long line of people behind me. I had been waiting in line for nearly an hour and now it was finally my turn to pass through the post-9/11 airport security. The decision to leave had been so much easier to make without facing him. I turned around to look at him with a pleading look, begging him not to make me feel guilty about this.

“Come to college with me, instead. It’s not too late.” He had mistaken my pleading look to be one of indecision and allowed hope to creep into his voice. I turned my head slowly, and looked into his eyes from across the hallway. Those turquoise eyes – the vivid colour visible even from this distance – that so often held empathy and compassion for me, were now hard and cold. This was his ultimatum.

“Hurry up,” snapped the guard. “Are you going, or not?”

I nodded slowly without taking my eyes off him and handed my passport to the guard. The guard grunted his approval and motioned for me to continue through the metal detector. For a moment, I made no motion whatsoever, but he still knew. His eyes changed from cold and hard to resigned and sad.

“May you be happy in the life you have chosen.” His mournful voice reverberated inside my skull, and though I walked away from him, I couldn’t walk away from those words.

The scene faded back to white, though the sounds remained. Those words, and all the many others he had said to me over the tumultuous years of our relationship, echoed through that eternity, whipping me, damning me, guilting me, flaying my soul. I screamed; there were no words, just a primal, guttural noise that started deep in my throat until it took on a life of its own and was torn from my lips involuntarily.

And then it was silent. But only briefly.

His words returned—visceral cuts that fueled my guilt. I couldn’t take it anymore, and the void started to unravel. For the briefest of moments, the white erupted into a rainbow of colours, and then there was nothing.

**********

I woke up in a cold sweat, panting raggedly. I lay perfectly still in the center of the massive bed – a bed that was too big for just one person – and I listened to the thumping of my heart pounding against my chest, threatening to burst out. I threw off the duvet and, trembling, made my way to the bathroom. The sun shone through the Venetian blinds, giving warmth to the bright white marble. I walked through the immaculate, spa-like room and stood in front of the tall, frameless mirror. I looked into it and saw only my earthly reflection—and all its flaws. I looked away; the image of me, unadorned and honest, was frightening in a very tangible way. I wasn’t looking into my soul this time; I was looking at the hollow mask that covered it.

I rinsed my face in the sink, as if I could somehow wash away the guilt or regret, and then I stepped out of the bathroom. The dream – if that is what it was – was still too vivid for me to be in that room. I was caught somewhere between reality and a dream, and my mind was unable to form distinct thoughts as I meandered through my spacious apartment.

The apartment I lived in was sparely decorated, with glossy white walls and gleaming, polished hardwood floors. The living room contained only two long, minimalist, white couches situated on either side of the long, low, glass coffee table; there was a tall, multi-tiered chrome end table in one corner. The only art in the room were three black and white fogscapes on the far wall.

I wanted to weep when I wasn’t calmed by the sight of my living room. It was my sanctuary: impersonal and unemotional, its white walls no longer an escape but rather a vivid reminder of my dreams. I left the living room and ambled into my kitchen, with its clean-cut granite counters and stainless-steel appliances. I felt the cool, gray slate beneath my feet as I ran my fingers over the turquoise backsplash—the only colour in the room; it was the exact colour of his eyes, I noticed. Or perhaps I’d always known. It didn’t matter. My sanctuary was failing me; the austere beauty I had created for myself was crumbling, leaving me defenseless against the power of memory.

I heard the doorbell ring, and I snapped out of my reverie. I turned the brushed-nickel handle and pushed the door open, letting my guest walk in.

“Hey, babe,” he smiled, careful to take off his shoes before coming in. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” I said softly, still caught somewhere between reality and memories. “I woke up late; sorry. Let me get dressed.”

“Do you mind if I grab a drink before we head out?” he asked cheerily. His uncomplicated happiness was a stark contrast to my tangled web of regret. The naiveté that I had often found so refreshing in him was now just an annoyance.

I nodded and walked to my room. I neatly made the bed, tucking the silver, silk sheets under the mattress before pulling the plush, white duvet over them. I opened my closet and put on a pair of white linen pants and a black-and-white-striped cashmere turtleneck. I finished with white shoes and a black velvet jacket. I looked in the mirror and ran my fingers through my hair, but as I moved to leave the room, I paused. I walked to the back of the closet and pulled a thin silk scarf off of a hook. It was a beautiful teal, almost turquoise, that complemented the otherwise colourless outfit.

“Wow,” he said with a whistle. “Don’t you look sharp. You should do colours more often.”

“Thanks,” I replied quietly.

He chattered amiably as we walked down the sidewalk, occasionally stopping to look in a boutique that we passed. He said there was a place he wanted to show me, so after we ate breakfast in a small English-style tea room, he told me to follow him. I asked him where we were going, but he just smiled and said it was a surprise. He loved to surprise me.

We held hands as we walked towards a quaint, artsy section of town that we often visited for good food and interesting shopping. This time, though, he led me to the more upscale part of the neighborhood, finally stopping before an art gallery I didn’t recognize. The sign above the portico said Nouveau in sharp, angular black writing on a white background. He gestured for me to step through the frosted-glass doors, and when I did, I was very pleasantly surprised.

“Welcome to the gallery opening of Maurice Bradshaw, photographer,” greeted the portly doorman dressed in a tuxedo. “Your tickets, please.”

I looked at James expectantly, and he handed two tickets to the doorman, who took our coats and ushered us into the gallery. Maurice Bradshaw was a local photographer, specializing in black-and-white landscape photography. He was also my favorite artist in the world and the photographer who took the three pictures in my living room. I turned to thank him for this fabulous gift – just what I needed after that night – when I saw a flash of turquoise. Despite his bright-green shirt, and daring tie, all I saw were those two holes of deepest turquoise.

I froze.

Time slowed to a crawl.

Our eyes connected for an ephemeral moment, and I knew.

Struggling to breathe, I needed to get out of there. I tried to get back to the door, but I felt a strong arm stop me.

“Where are you going? Don’t you like it?”

I looked into his deep brown eyes and wondered how I could possibly explain what was going through my mind. He wouldn’t understand; he couldn’t. He wrapped his strong arms around my chest and embraced me tightly. He lifted me off the ground, kissing the nape of my neck ever so softly.

“What’s wrong?” he whispered into my ear in between kisses. I looked over his shoulder and didn’t reply. Those eyes were fixed on me, unwavering in their intensity.

I felt arms squeeze me tighter, and I felt love wash over me – a pale love compared to the one I craved, and a love that I couldn’t return. And there, tightly intertwined with someone who loved me, I felt hopelessly, acutely alone.

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