The Metaphysicist (Kill Your Darlings) | Featured

lowercase is my aesthetic

With all of this metaphysical bullshit Lucien has shoved me into with the promise that it will be an adventure, a product of his somehow consistent spontaneity, even if that consistent spontaneity has landed us in that terrible situation with Edie on the phone, I haven't snagged the opportunity to write an article for my blog, and when I checked my email inbox this morning, it was bursting with comments asking if I am okay or if I've abandoned my blog or if this upcoming article is longer than the other ones and therefore requires more time to complete, none of which are true but all of which are increasingly difficult to express, but there are enough comments in my inbox that I can pretend like I didn't see them.

I'd much rather wallow in the beauty that Lucien has brought about by simply meeting me in the library that one day not too long ago, as articles are material concepts in a span of arbitrary means and never change while I'm off living the extraordinary existence that all humans should experience, so if they're that boring, why are my readers ostensibly purified by them, and why do they continue to demand more? Are they insecure in their intelligence? Because I can't fix that by writing some shitty articles that I half-assed just to get them over with.

Lucien is the type of man to ship you inspiration across the fucking Atlantic Ocean, yet since I've been with him, I have nothing to write about, and I'm not sure if I can find anything. Lucien is going to the library for work today, so I can follow him and peruse the aisles for something interesting to appease my thirsting readers who really know nothing about me except for the fact that I must be a highly prestigious scholar when I'm really just a hermit who has just escaped their basement of ten months. The library stores masses of interesting topics for articles, but will I want to write them? Is the case that I have no inspiration, or is the case that Lucien has devoured all of my motivation to draft a paper out of whatever inspiration I may possess? I won't ever know, because I'm going to force myself to write this goddamn article no matter what, so I need to plan my trip to the library.

"Lucien?" I call into the kitchen from my cozy position on the cobalt chair, scrolling through the abundance of comments just to occupy my fingers and assay just how many there are in a general sense, and there sure are a lot, meaning that I must write this article or suffer a glitch in my email because of the spate of comments flooding in upon the wave of peevishness.

"Yes, Allen?" Lucien replies, unrooting himself from a chair at the kitchen table and from his activity of staring at the wall like it has a purpose undiscovered by man while he solemnly sips his coffee, to instead assist me in my existential awakenings.

"Can I go with you to the library today?"

A lamp called excitement sprouts into a display of magnificent beams upon Lucien's complexion, and he shakes his finger in an odd sort of gesture as he labors to recall something. "Do you need a book for an article on your blog?"

"Yeah. I haven't written one in a few days with all of this hectic roommate business."

That's not to say that I haven't enjoyed being tangled up in this hectic roommate business, just that it's supplanted my articles with more and more impulsivity piled atop itself as both the heap and our smiles grow, and that impulsivity is not only the replacement for my articles, but it's the reason why my articles are currently nonexistent, and now my readers are roaring at me to stop being such a lazy bum and actually delve into the world of intellectual merit when I'd rather enjoy amorphous performances of art like Lucien provides me with, and articles won't ever come close to that, yet I can't desert this blog of mine to focus solely on that art, because if this whole relationship between Lucien and me goes to hell, I need a backup source that will fuel my sense of worth in the harsh, unforgiving world.

I'm always saying that this relationship is doomed and that it has been doomed from its genesis, but it's true. There is always a point where a falling out is closer than a falling in. There is always a point where someone's spontaneity becomes their recklessness and their clumsy gambling. There is always a point where you want to leave but still care enough about the other person to spare their feelings and endure the strife. There is always a point where you decide to fuck it and go, because the wreck that you've been doting on has either wasted your affection or never elucidated the fact that they needed you more than you needed them and has spun you into a lie, a psychologically devastating lie from which no human can recover, and as much as I'd hate to see my relationship with Lucien reach those points, it's as inevitable as he says death is, and I will eventually need that backup source, so I also need to build it up with a new article.

Lucien perches on the arm of my chair, guarding his coffee mug with both of his hands like a psychologist and a mother at the same time, and his words are typical of the two. "I think it's great that you're doing this, getting yourself out there."

Well it's certainly the only way I'll do it, and Edie and Jack understood that, too, so they never really bothered me about my blog except to ask in a manner of small talk how its statistics are polling, how many reads I've received on my newest article, what topic I've been invested in recently, if any comments stood out to me, only the mundane questions reserved for those mandatory dinners Edie hosts every month, because Jack and Edie know that I don't give a shit about fulfilling their politeness rituals, but they also know that I'm passionate about writing, so that's the only way they can sneak into my life and sneak me into the conversation.

"This article writing business started on a whim, much like we did—" I pause upon detecting a shadow of pain sauntering over Lucien's face, unexpected from him yet as vivid as his ocean blue eyes now watering with their own contents, and I assume that I know why he's been damaged by my comment. Lucien thinks that this relationship is stable enough for us to perpetuate across a large terrain of time, but that's not a veritable hypothesis. As much as he would like to believe otherwise, we did start on a whim. We had barely interacted with each other before he was pleading for me to move into his apartment with him, which was a step up from my dreary basement, I must admit, but this plan is flimsy and feeble and will not work out in the end, though we sure can pray that it will. We're skilled enough at ignoring the truth anyway.

But what kind of monster would end the relationship prematurely by crushing any dreams of its success? I don't aim to hurt Lucien, only remind him of what is sure to transpire, but I can't even say that. I can only say that I'm sorry, which is terribly difficult when there are thousands of warriors screaming at me to allow them passage through the barrier I've constructed to defend us against them, and the wall is deteriorating, so I force the words through.

"I'm sorry, Lucien. I didn't mean it like that," I apologize frantically, expelling the words before Lucien can interrupt with something to ruin me, something that is only birthed out of the misconceptions of my uncompleted statement, but in these nearing seconds I realize that I don't need to desert my statement to be struck by a sentence harsher than anything I've witnessed from him before.

"We both know you did." Lucien's gaze drills into me, penetrates my security, breaks away to slide off of the arm of the chair as if dismissing my comment entirely. "But you're right nonetheless. I was just hoping to revel in this bliss for a little while longer, so thanks for dampening the mood."

It is now clear that both Lucien and I wish for this relationship to prevail, perhaps in equal amounts, but the dividing idea is that Lucien is willing to neglect every piece of evidence that yells at him with contradictions to his destructive whims, and there isn't even a single piece of opposing evidence to suggest that it could prevail. He's riding this wave solely because the prospect of a happy relationship is a conceivable idea, not because it's somewhere that he can see, and that's where he'll be destroyed.

"Lucien, you must comprehend that every relationship is fragile." I scramble from the chair, almost tripping over the piles of items Lucien has amassed in his apartment, and I barely reach my companion just before he slips into his bedroom, halting to gather my breath now that I've caught him, though he's obviously annoyed and only desires to be free.

With a tone as icy as the November climate outside, ruffling his hair as it sloshes through the window, Lucien spits, "Just get ready for the library, Allen."  

~~~~~

A/N: why the hell they fighting tho

(((stick with the fucking outline, dakota)))

homocentrism: regarding humans to be the core of the universe and only considering humans

~Dakotoe