The Metaphysicist (Kill Your Darlings) | Featured

Lucien is a fuckboy

I've barely been allotted any time to recover before Lucien is bouncing all around the apartment with an idea in that buzzing mind of his, and since it is so buzzing and hectic and won't leave him alone, it's his duty to spill the idea with as much fervor as he can before it passes by, cascading into the void of no return.

This time, he's rambling about playing a game of questions, where we ask each other things about our personalities and our hypothetical decisions and our desires and all of that shit that strengthens friendships and eliminates the barriers that maybe some of us want to keep, but if I'm to understand Lucien enough to help him, and if he is to do the same, then this is a perfect activity for that, as our friendship is currently flimsy and childish and built on the foundation of impulse, but this will construct it again like a fortress.

I'm trying to enjoy a nice time in Lucien's cluttered living room, but this child of a man is tugging at me to play the game of questions with him, and I finally relent, sliding off of the chair and onto the floor like a chunk of gelatin who has lost all faith in their life.

"The thing about journalists is that they're always scouring the earth for their next big scoop. So, Allen Ginsberg, what would you like to know about this arrogant hermit living in the hell that is Paterson, New Jersey?" Lucien stares at me for a moment, as if expecting me to say something out of my own volition when all I wish to do is read about ancient civilizations, a book I randomly selected from the piles in Lucien's wobbling bookshelf, and I'm about to tell him to fuck off, but he eventually speaks his own words. "Shall we proceed, Allen Ginsberg?"

Was he searching for my consent? If so, I'll give it to him, but I'd much rather be doing other things. Don't get me wrong -- learning more about Lucien is always interesting; cracking enigmas warrants medals and glory and pride in oneself -- but I'm too tired for this. On the contrary, Lucien is terribly excited about playing this game, so I reply, "Yep, go for it."

Stirred by my approval, Lucien claps his hands together. "Then let's get started with something easy: what's your favorite color? Mine is white, because it's a blend of everything that could ever be."

Typical scholar Lucien Carr, flagrant about what he knows and silent about what he doesn't, and that leads many to believe that he knows everything that there is to know, which I understand is completely incredulous, though others don't, so Lucien is subtly laboring to convert me to their terrain of obliviousness, but all I do is laugh internally at his explanation for something as mundane as his favorite color. Two can play at this game, though, and I'll shake his world with the opposite answer as his.

I endeavor to mask my smile while I spew this philosophical bullshit at a susceptible victim, and I somehow manage it with an inch left to spare. "My favorite color is black, because it proves that even in absence we can create beauty. We can attribute qualities to the void and shun the forces that claim it's impossible. We no longer trip in the ebony, rather utilize it as paint and inspiration, utilize it to dye the fabrics that hug our bodies, utilize it to fill the world with more than ever before."

My companion is silent, a quieted gasp hung against his mouth, and fearing the demise of his reputation, he finally speaks. "Well it seems that we are now rivaling as the echelons of pretentiousness," Lucien admits, teeth churning with the chipped pieces of a smile, and I only smirk to myself.

"Choose one sense to live without," I order, recognizing that this will infuriate Lucien beyond compare and trigger an entire spiel about how he requires all of them to remain pure or some shit, and that's exactly what I receive.

"How can I choose to relinquish a core part of me? How will I view the world in all its entirety?" Lucien's brows clip together as if by a closepin, utterly disgusted by my inquiry. "You're fucking mad, Allen Ginsberg."