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The Fallen

The Rise and Fall of a Personal God

This is not a story. It has no beginning or end. It has no meaning. It’s not even real. It is just an emotional vomit. The purge from too much lies or too much truth, I’m still not sure which one is it. But more than anything else, it is about a worship and the death of an imaginary god. A beautiful death though: loving and caring. Like Kronos devouring his own children to stop the time. It never worked, but hey, it was a good try nonetheless.

This is not a girl meets boy story. Although this is how it happened. But, it wasn’t real. Or maybe it was real but it’s not how it happened. I don’t know. I was never interested in knowing the difference. So, let’s just go with it.

Long before a boy, there was a girl. A little girl with big eyes. People say she was sad, but I don’t think so. Or at least she didn’t become sad. There wasn’t a pre-sad version of her. She simply was. Until she wasn’t.

One day she asked: Who am I? That was the day she cracked. It was from that crack that the boy was conceived. Although it took her a real long time to master that act of creation. But it was all worth it. Deception was beautiful. It was so intricate and complete that you could never find anything like it outside of her head. It was realer than the real could ever be. Everything else was dull in comparison. Tasteless, shapeless, colorless void. She tried living in that world, she tried really hard. But she couldn’t feel a thing. It was empty. Maybe she was empty, or the world was empty, I don’t know. So, she run back to the only place where she didn’t feel alone: to her own world of beautiful duplicity.

This particular boy was a masterpiece. As if the Universe have conspired to breathe life into him. Although at first, he seemed like a failure. Luckily, she was really good at fixing even the most erroneous cosmic mistakes.

The first time the possibility of him appeared in her life was many lifetimes ago. He was young, good looking, funny, interesting, smart. Or he thought he was. That’s the worst kind. But what she didn’t know was that he didn’t. He was trying hard to be that because he didn’t think he was. The truth is that only strong people are not trying. The rest of us, we keep trying. We keep trying really hard. And he was so good at trying that he managed to deceive himself.

When they first met, she twitched a little. Her ‘brokeness’ alarm went off. There was something about him that he wasn’t showing. But he wasn’t ready yet. She was looking for a murderer and he looked as a harmless heart-break offender. No, he wasn’t worth it.

So, they both went back to their lives to break some more.

Many years later he came back. If this was a love story, maybe you could even believe it was romantic. For her, the circumstances did not really matter. She heard the calling. He was the one. She made him play the part, just to satisfy formalities. After all, she needed time to prepare. But whatever he did or said, it wasn’t really important. She knew what she needed to do.

They were perfect for each other. Until they weren’t.

She was smart, strong, dominant, little mysterious and married. Perfect combination of forbidden and uncommittable. Pursuit was all he wanted, and she was ideal. The rest, he didn’t care about.

Which made him lethal. Unlike the first time they met, he was ready to kill, and this is what she was looking for. Her very own, beautiful self-annihilating toy.

Some people use razors to self-inflict the pain, she uses people. What is good about it is that you can go about your world bleeding life out of your veins without anyone ever noticing. But she wasn’t a suicidal type. Not at all. She didn’t want to die. She wanted to feel alive. And only the pain — a lot of it — could make her feel anything. That’s why she wanted him.

Until things spiraled out of control. But for that, we need to go back to the little big-eyed girl.

It all started with the question: Who am I? The question as old as eternity. I wish she never asked, but then, maybe she never had a choice. Either way, her life became a quest for the answer.

People often say that if you want to learn about life you should look within. But she knew from the start this was not true. You can never learn about yourself by looking on the inside. No, it’s too complicated: self-observing-self that is observing self. That is too much knowledge and none of the knowing. We can only see ourselves by looking into other people. And that’s what she did. She was a mastermind. She knew everything there was to know about herself, but she always wanted more.

Other people thought she was really good at reading others. She was a great friend, a good listener. She always knew what to say, how to comfort the inflicted. She was so full of empathy that she could sense the tiniest of emotions…even before they came out to be.

Or, maybe that was exactly the problem.

It was never about other people. You may go as far to say that she was not even interested in other people. She gave up on them long time ago. Except that she needed them. As a canvas, that’s all.

She was an artist in that sense: using others to paint the most beautiful self-portraits. Most people did not mind. Or perhaps they never understood what was done to them.

He didn’t mind at first either. It was the thing he fell in love with. Her idea of himself. He loved the way she loved him. It was the most beautiful, seductive, exquisite idea that he had ever seen. He saw himself in her eyes the way no one ever saw him. He wanted to be that. Except that this wasn’t him in the first place: it was her own image that she was painting. What a beautiful lie. Two people falling in love with themselves. Until things started crumbling down. Like a mandala. It was never meant to last. It was all for the act of it. Like making love to yourself. Beautiful but barren.

But this time she was not ready to let go. She couldn’t afford losing it. She could finally see herself in him, even though she knew that was never him. She couldn’t let him take it away. So, she worked hard to force it on him. She believed he would be happy to be that — if he only trusted her. She believed she saw him so clearly: better than he could ever see himself.

Maybe she was right, I don’t know. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was a version of him that was much better than he ever was or ever will be. Maybe he would have been happy.

But it wasn’t him. It was her shape-shifting.

The more he tried to escape, the more desperate she became. Until she learnt that the only way to have something is to let go.

So, she blew out her beautiful mandala. Until all there was left was just a dirt.

One thing she got right about him though: he was lethal.

But she loved him nonetheless. Or maybe she only loved the idea of loving him. Does it really matter? None of it is real anyhow.

He was a good guy. In fact, he turned out to be better than the image she created in her mind. But he wasn’t nice at all. He tortured her in every way possible. He did unimaginable things. He broke her in million pieces. Albeit, what he destroyed was not her. It wasn’t ‘them’ either. It was the false god she created.

If it wasn’t for him, she would have continued worshiping the god she created in her own image.
In many ways, you could say he saved her (although, let’s not give him too much credit, shall we).

So, now what?

Illusion is gone. She came closer to answering the “who am I?’. She maybe even got a little better. Or did she? Maybe it’s just another delusory self-portrait she is painting. I guess we will never know. Until next time.

And the boy? He is also gone. Although he never even existed to start with. He is currently busy creating his own gods in the image of himself. Somewhere else, with someone else.

But this is not the end of the story. Because there is no story. The fact that it happened does not make it real. Which means that it can be anything and everything. For as long as we stop trying.

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