Hello kittens. I have been gone for an awful long time and I thought it would be a good idea to celebrate my long overdue return by posting something brand new. This is probably the shortest fic that I will ever post. I hope you enjoy it.
***********************************************************************************
Summary: Willow writes some things down just to get them out of her head.

Rating: PG-13. Violent images.

Title: The Agony Of Love
************************************************************************************

A time of discontentment has currently fallen heavily upon my fragile state of being. This woman takes from me, so unforgiving and yet so oblivious. I find myself sitting up late at night even into the early hours of the mornings, neglecting my pacifying dreams, to think of her. All of the ‘what-ifs’ echo through my mind. Unheard screams in a lonely desert with no comforting thoughts of the oasis. What if she could let herself love me? That question I pondered so much more often than the others. Happiness would be the only feeling she would ever know if she would surrender herself to me. The worst torture of all is trying to walk away from something that you know is right, but I have been doing it for so long that the soles of my shoes have worn down to a thin layer of rubber that barely separates my bare feet from the jagged earth beneath. Sometimes I wonder if maybe I should turn around and walk back. It is impossible for me to believe that having my heart shattered for several months would be a worse fate than wondering for an entire lifetime. Every time I talk to her, though, I end up saying something stupid. My brain does the work of mustering up these eloquent and beautiful statements, but somewhere along the journey to my mouth they wander off course and I am stuck with the leftovers of the English language. Pathetically, I continue on as though at some moment the connection will finally occur and I will say what I had initially intended. More often than not, that does not happen.

Instead, I feel another sharp pain in something that I am inclined to call my soul as I realize that perhaps I have just pushed her away a little bit more. Every day I realize that I will have to try that much harder to win her affections. That in itself is not more than a mere illusion. I fool myself into thinking that maybe if I say and do the right things constantly, she could see that I am what she is looking for. I am right here in front of her. I am waving my hands and screaming for her to see me there, but to no avail. The possibility that you can love someone so much after knowing them for such a short time should be nonexistent. Yet here I am pouring my heart and soul onto a page that will never be seen by any other pair of human eyes. I will not allow it because if I can not keep my mind to myself, what more do I have to secure from the world. Vulnerability causes intense uneasiness. I find that I have not lived one moment since youth without worry. Every instant of my existence I am consumed by this feeling. The butterflies flap their wings harder and harder with no concern for the well-being of the body in which they dwell. My failing heart is riddled with caverns from the relentless maggots that consume the unused, and perpetually bruised flesh and tissue. No matter how much I try to convince myself that fighting back is an obvious response to this bodily intrusion, I can not find the strength.

Apart from her, I have no self. The ‘out-of-sight-out-of-mind’ theory makes me laugh a mirthless laugh for I know that there is no such luck, especially when the sight is created by the mind. I see her with my eyes closed. I smell her with my nose plugged. I hear her through deaf ears. I speak her name through mute lips, but all the while, I am the only one that knows of my obsession for her. If only I could feel whole for one small instance of my life. If only love truly could feel like the imagination dreams that it is. There is no safety within the mind. There is more torture to be found there than anywhere else in the universe. The false realities it builds is only a segue way into the loss of sanity that arrives at a much faster rate than one would think. It settles in so easily among the already deteriorated tissue of the real world. You feel weak within the pressures of reality as well as in the uncertain hands of the world you create. It may be a happy world for the time being, but once you discover that it could never translate to the real world you sink into this state of depression that is nearly impossible to overcome and more than impossible to bear without at least one detailed thought of suicide. Mine is simple. Painless. I thought that if nothing else in the world is without pain, then my death, inflicted by my own hands, should be. There’s me. Only me. By myself. Alone. Because I trust no one else to feel true pity or remorse at the sight of my lifeless corpse. I do not trust anyone to hold back their joy at seeing my limpid eyes staring into something, but not something that is visible to those still stuck to the wretched lump of earth I am finally free of. I sit in a room. In the dark so that I am not suspicious of my own impending actions. Oblivious to the fact that I will soon commit mutiny against my own self. On the floor, I feel around for the cool metal of the gun. All too simply, I point it at my head. It has to be right up against my skull so that I know I will not miss because I would be too afraid to ever attempt it again should I fail. Then, my shaky hand would pull the trigger as I wave goodbye to a world to which I never truly felt that I belonged.

This is what love is like. It is a sickness. I have heard it called that many times before and I have never once negated it. There is no other fact in this world of which I can be more certain. Then, just as though they had never happened, those thoughts fade away. My heart sings as I embrace the love I feel for someone who will never return it. I feel a lightness in my step as I thank myself for being too chicken shit to pull the trigger. Or buy a gun for that matter. A smile graces my lips as I see her and we go on being friends while I pretend that I can handle that. If I could write her one letter, only one, it would be years before she ever received it. It would take me countless hours to find just the right words to say what I need to say while at the same time protecting myself, while at the same time making myself vulnerable by leaving the decision in her hands, while at the same time trying to make it seem like I don’t really care either way, while at the same time leaving hints within the words that disprove my nonchalance, while at the same time trying to maintain my sanity so that I don’t seem like some crazy, obsessive person who can’t let go of someone who clearly will never give me what I need because I am not what she wants.

This long, drawn out letter will not create any real opportunity for me and would only be a waste of paper. Keeping these things shut in the dark recesses of my mind is surely not healthy, but I am in no condition to reveal such things. Perhaps I am long overdue for a therapist, but my wallet will not allow that just yet. So for now I have to entertain own mind to keep it from wandering off to these imaginary realms that only push me further into some sort of dementia caused by spending an excessive amount of time dwelling in the fantastic world that I have created. For now, I suppose that is my only escape until I can learn to fall in love with someone who will love me back either readily or eventually.

_________________
My parents said that I could be anything that I wanted to be... so I became a lesbian.

You might want to consider breaking it up into paragraphs. That much information in one big paragraph is just too much for the mind to take in at one time.

--->Susan

_________________
The Mystic Muse
Now featuring Elvis in eBook format!