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Day 3 – Prompted by Happiness by Kasabian

April 15, 2012

Happiness by Kasabian

Achieving Nirvana

He holds a small, plaster angel, with shabby gilt wings.  A simple knick-knack, of no intrinsic value, which his fingers rotate constantly, turning and touching, touching and turning. This talisman is his last remaining tether to the indifferent misery of life.

She was young and so was he, and this was both cause and effect in their relationship.  In the bright, endless days they roamed and laughed, each fitting the other with such perfection the entire evolution of the universe could have been designed to culminate in their being together.

Moments sleeping seemed moments wasted so they lay entwined and cheated Morpheus by dreaming only of each other. When work or studies forced them apart, each partner assumed a divided mind, feeling the virtual presence of the other, so that every small task was performed to an internal dialogue in which the other’s responses were so easily intuited, it was as though they were never apart at all.

She was his angel, keeping him safe.  He bought the cheap plaster knick-knack as a joke to do the same for her.

Friends at first teased them for the exclusivity of their devotion.  Then, growing tired of unanswered messages, called less and less, then not at all.  He cared not one bit, his world complete, she maybe cared more, he had no idea.

The flame that burns brightly burns fast, and the turning of the seasons brought the first threat of rain.  Her growing emotional distance became fact with graduation and an internship abroad.

He kept their apartment, but destroyed all the photographs. The plaster angel wept on a high shelf.

That he was still young was a blessing. Throwing himself into work, this time without the preposterous distractions of another, he rose and flourished.  There were women, but none who lasted beyond the changing of the sheets.

Despite soft ripples of discontent that spread through the depths of his mind, in good time partnership was offered and accepted.  His doubts were easily calmed by the drink and pills that helped him feel what he should at any given time. His contemporaries showed him how to match the demands of the day and the silence of the long night.  There were substances for every need; he could appear almost normal.

And every shot, every hit, every upper, downer and straightener-out brings a little more warm emptiness and a little less doubt. But that virtual presence in the divided mind is indomitably persistent.

One morning, he wakes in his chair with a stain on his clothes that he hopes is spilled whiskey. He takes a decision with his pills and looks her up.  Her name and photograph on the first page of results punches the breath from him.  Every contour and shadow of her pulls like fish-hooks in his heart.

Dialling her number takes the best part of a week.  Hanging up when she answers takes his last remaining strength.

When he refuses to see the shrinks they line up for him, they offer a generous package, and he agrees he should spend more time “relaxing’’.  No longer having to work, means no longer having to think. He likes that.

He gets ripped off by the dealers, he is sure they steal his clothes, but his thoughts trouble him less and less.  He almost never thinks of her at all, now.

He holds a small, plaster angel, with shabby gilt wings.  A simple knick-knack, of no intrinsic value, which his fingers rotate constantly, turning and touching, touching and turning. This talisman is his last remaining earthly obstacle to achieving Nirvana.

 

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One Comment
  1. I loved this – some great and memorable lines. Great going for something written under such time presssure.

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