WHO: Gabriel Gray WHERE: Gabriel's temporary motel room WHEN: Thursday, November 13th; Early Morning WHAT: Contemplations of a broken man. RATING: PG STATUS: Narrative; COMPLETE
Jean-Paul Sartre once said I am no longer sure of anything. If I satiate my desires, I sin but I deliver myself from them; if I refuse to satisfy them, they infect the whole soul. I'm not sure that I could phrase it much better than that. Some days I'm left wondering if I even have a soul left. The way this consumes me, gnaws on me to end the lives of those placed in front of me, those that I call friends, some that I would even call family, I am left to wonder just how long it is going to take before I do something that I cannot change.
The blood still stains my hands even though it has long since been washed away. I should be spending the nights wandering corridors shrieking "Out, damn'd spot! out, I say!" Wash your hands, put on your nightgown; look not so pale. What's done is done and cannot be undone. I have done it and while my victim is no longer dead, the memory lingers in my head and in my heart. How could I be so cruel to someone who has treated me as a brother, who offered his hand to me in friendship when he had no reason to and every reason not to? I have done nothing more than prove all the naysayers right, and yet, they still want me back. For some unfathomable reason, they want me back.
And I want to go back despite all the risk that I may be placing them in. I have suffered alone long enough. Now that I have known friendship, I see no way to return to solitude and live. Life begins on the other side of despair. Now that I have something to lose and now what it is to truly place that in jeopardy, perhaps this is where my journey begins. I'm afraid. Once I choose a path, there is no turning back and taking a different fork. Whether I choose to abandon the connections that I have made and strike out on my own for their own well being or return to the safety and security of the support of those, the decision is in my hands and my hands alone.
The question is, which will lead me to the end that I wish to achieve? I wish I knew who could give me the information that I required. Someone who hasn't had to piece it together from observations and conjecture. No finite point has meaning without an infinite reference point. Each moment is contengent upon those which surround it. If only the road to walk was more clear cut.
I love them.
Philosophical arguments and crisis of being aside, I love them. And I can't just walk away.
Pen placed on pages, journal shut with a dull clunk, Gabriel leaned forward, pillowing his head in his hands to collect himself before pushing himself to his feet. He had some packing to do.