A twitter short story by @1stCitizenKane
I saw them kissing by the swing set, by the lockers, leaving the parking lot. You see a lot when you’re watching, too much. So I gave it up. Something about seeing somebody else having what you want is enough by itself to drive you crazy. You start to question. You begin doubting. I used to love a girl, you see, and I’m only certain of two things. She didn’t love me, and the experience made Romeo and Juliet believable. What you do is you discover a better world, one made of lines of fiction and you occupy it, begin to see your own world as lines of fiction. The colors of your own world begin to inherit monochromatic elements, like chalkboard drawings of inexplicable geometry in a sleeping class. I loved the yellow of the sun, the translucent blue of the moon, but when what you really want smears those colors, you find a way and flee. She kissed him and it was not me. She kissed him again and I was miles further away. She kissed him and I became a dreamer in another world.
What I learned is that three-dimensional worlds are places of insane complexity; that where words and pages are indistinct, life can be had. I am neither a painter nor a writer, but if a man’s misery cannot be traded in even exchange for a blank canvas, artists have never existed. Some would call my flight from the fight of mortal survival a case of psychosis, but such words are defense mechanisms for the truly hollow. To breathe a final moment, I had to see her kiss him once more; it was enough. You have to turn your back on that which gives you scoliosis. The sun became an orb of gray and the moon was reduced to nil. Becoming a character in a fictional world is what I imagine birth feels like. I stepped out of the aneurysm of human hysteria and into fiction as someone, nay, something bestowed with the only real serenity: anonymity.
What is a blanket? What is a window? What is a fan that spins to its own humming? What does it mean to completely forget that you ever were? They speak of magic, natural orders, of morality, and other trivial preoccupations for the damned, but such is null to brushstrokes and ink. You see, a human must turn a page or move on to the next artwork in a gallery, but I learned what it means to bleed and traverse landscapes. Two-dimensional worlds are composed of the clefs of what is exhausted when a miserable man flays his heart to produce a lasting masterpiece. What I became is the essence that tortures men in their fitful sleep and lurks in their paranoiac wakefulness, the one breath that breathes. Beyond the seams of canvases and the knitting of novels, there is no God, for God is the two-dimensional expression of man’s pure substance.
Volumes of Valium, histories of heroin, limericks of liquor, book after book, painting after painting, and then I came to realize something. I had fled the world of spheres and prisms for a chance to experience the rapture of tears and visions and all I found was her. Kissing him. All the rainbows and monochromes roasting in the stoves of frozen life were not enough to erase the smudge of her kissing him from my heart. What is sacrifice? What is suicide? What is desperation? To swear I knew the consequences would be to believe that all men know God by name. There is only one fate awarded those foolish enough to evict themselves from the rotted houses of the living: memory, the lungs of eternity. Everything is the points where lines merge into angles, but where I became the essence of the misery of artists, worlds cannot be destroyed. To bleed, to traverse landscapes, to be a page-drifter and canvas-shifter, to be free from memory.
I saw her kissing him. I never forgot it.