Opera House

Act IV. Scene I.

I'd rather be out there staring death right between its eyes now.

BRIGHT

The depressive insanity and striking shifts between mellowed out moods and overactive ones that has clouded my entire bearing resembled Beethoven's manic turmoil when he found out he's going to be deaf. Imagine, a musician with such rare and impeccable talent losing his sense of musicality? But in my situation, its the disdain and grudge over losing what I have long dreamt of devoting my life to.

I really did grew deaf. I was incapable of hearing Win out, I was even reluctant to hear my own thoughts.

The person I've become ever since leaving the concerto became this menacing monster who was rather keen on sabotaging himself. I wasn't ignorant of the pain I've been causing people around me. My family, my friends, and the love of my life.

The concerto was everything in my life--that, and Win. He was everything to me, still is.

Seeing the person you loved deeply waste away his year by looking after his lover who turned into the biggest self-sabotager makes me want to punish myself. I have in so long. I knew I'm no longer worthy of his love. To see him fighting this battle alone and staying in a relationship that has basically ran its course left an unconquerable hole to my heart.

I'm still in love with him. God knows just how much. I would give everything to him. If he asked for my arm I would give two of it. Win barely asked for anything of me and that's what I'm the most loathsome about. He was so selfless.

In some other superficial universe, I still want to fight and to salvage what's left of us. Have the guts to nurse it and make it as new.

But this is where I am now.

Its been two weeks since that night he fought back, and since then, the remorse and guilt ate at me,--not like I didn't feel guilty in the first place. It was consuming all of me. I feel raw, within the bounds of being half-eaten. But that was way before, now, the guilt has devoured me whole and has taken ahold of my senses.

I had to do something, and just then, I did. Over the course of two weeks, I've been trying my hardest not to make up for the lost time nor make myself feel better, but to prevent myself from prolonging Win's agony.

I've always had the music school back home to come back to.

I can't even use music as an excuse, it won't be much of an escapism because in this world I'm not Tchaikovsky coming to terms with his own melancholia and uses music as his security blanket. I would try to go back to the piano, rehash my writings, but its as if my mind was conditioned to decline each advance. I'm unable to compose.

Win and I barely see each other since he got the call from RBS. I'd like to think we're both making progress on our own and I hope that counts for something.

Now he's finally leaving for London.

He's going to make it as big as Nijinsky and Nureyev, his favourite dancers. Win will make it anywhere, he will dance alongside the New York City Ballet Company, fleet with the top-tier danceuse of Bolshoi, and hail awards and pride for the Royal Opera House. My love will get to dance Balanchine's 1962 choreography of A Midsummer Night's Dream. He'll make a great Lysander.

But this time, I won't be his Demetrius. I never was.

"I guess this is it, then." I concluded, staring at our now sort-of empty apartment. All of his stuff are either put away on brown cardboard boxes and luggage. Now its just all my stuff lying cluttered all around.

Gone are his ballet belts on our closet, his cotton tights, even his collection of used and beat-up pointé shoes from when he was a child up 'til the many productions he's done. All packed away to seek for its new home.