Sensation

He took my right hand in his left, gently, tenderly. The touch of warmth sent electric currents through my body, scorching my cheeks a burned red. I had worried about this moment, worried about feeling so uncomfortable in my own skin, that the moment would be ruined - utterly unfounded anxiety, as I now realised.

Self-consciousness evaporated in that moment - all sense of a physical entity was dismissed in that instant. Simply to be, without consciousness of a being.

Gradually, my eyes took in the slight curve of his smile, traced the outline of his lips, an image I knew would be etched in my mind more permanently than any tattoo. He had one - on the back of his neck - a small blackbird. The first time I'd seen it, we'd known each other only two days. Walking down a narrow sidewalk, I'd fallen back a little to tie a loose shoelace. When I looked up, he had turned away from me, silently observing the quiet street. Standing up, the tattoo was at my eye level. Simple and elegant, the blackbird looked like it had flown down and perched upon his skin - the symbol of mysticism had chosen one equally magical and mysterious. You could know him, but you'd never really know him, unless he decided he wanted to know you.

I glanced back down at his hand, fingers intertwined in mine, and I couldn't hold back the smile that came to my lips. His own smile widened, eyes brightening, warming every fibre of my being. I glanced up at the playful tuft of hair that cast a slight shadow on his face. I'd subtly observed it so many times - how it ruffled slightly in the rippling breeze, how it whipped about when he turned too fast, how it rebelled against his fingers desperately trying to smooth it in moments of anxiety. Now his eyes followed mine, and he grinned, his right hand coming up to push down the tousled mess.

"Don't," I said softly.

He didn't lower his hand. As if contemplating something - I'd learnt to sense his emotions, but could never guess at his thoughts - he ran his hand back through his hair, before gingerly reaching out for my other hand.

The heat had spread from my cheeks to my ears, the blood pounded through my head, leaving me slightly dizzy, desperately holding on to his eyes with my own.

"Penny for your thoughts," he said in a low voice, still smiling.

Absolutely lost for words, brain entirely frazzled, I could do no more than laugh a little. Looking at him, this intricate work of art before me, open to so many interpretations, none of which did him any justice, I wondered what he himself was thinking.

He took a step closer, and the static in the air between us was nearly tangible. I tried to take a step back, but my legs and feet conspired against my overwhelmed mind. He was too close, too real.

We had talked about his tattoo on two occasions. The first time, I asked what it meant to him, and when he'd gotten it. "A good omen," he replied. "A realisation of something positive." It was a response far from personal, and he ignored the second question entirely, instead recounting how the pain had been greater than he had anticipated. The second time was a couple of weeks later. We sat side by side, and he fell silent for a long time. I considered whether to ask what he was thinking, or if he was feeling alright, when he looked at me suddenly.

"You asked me once about the blackbird."

"I remember, you said it was a good omen."

"Vulnerability. It's a reminder to myself, and I suppose to all others who understand it. On occasion, we must let ourselves be vulnerable. What's the point of a good omen if you're protecting yourself from the bad as well as the good?"

"What were you making yourself vulnerable to?"

He had said nothing then, and I figured it best to leave him alone with this memory that he seemed to have great difficulty articulating.

Now, with him less than a step away from me, I felt absolutely vulnerable. For a moment, I wondered if he felt the same. When I looked back up at him, for the first time, I could see the answer.

"There are too many things I've never been certain of. Right now, I'm certain of just one - and it's the only one that truly matters."

I could hear nothing but the intensifying drumming of my own heart as I watched his lips move. He was saying something else. I could hear it, could see his shining eyes, could sense his deep breaths as his chest rose and fell, but the words were drowned out by the whirlpool of thoughts flooding my mind.

As I fought to control the jagged heartbeats, he repeated the words, and this time they came through loud and clear.






"I love you."


-

the face I wear, treading the riptide; abysmal oceans where good girls go to die. //midnight ramblings

If you were wondering, the title is from a song called Bad Intentions by Niykee Heaton. And yes, I know I haven't written in very long BUT I AM HERE NOW (yay).

Anyway, I wanted to write a little bit about our choices. I've been grappling with a question recently, and that is whether our choices are truly what defines us. It's very commonly said that our actions define who we are, but I was just wondering whether it's really about the choice to take the action, or the intentions behind that decision, that make us who we are. Whether a good or bad intention lies at the heart of a decision we make - does that count for anything?

I've made bad choices, with good intentions. I've made bad choices, with bad intentions. I'm not perfect. None of us are. Deeper yet, on another level, I'd like to consider specifically who the bad intentions hurt? If we make bad decisions, based on bad intentions, but only hurt ourselves and noone else, are we still bad? I know these questions are confusing at best, but sometimes the mind struggles to be sure about what it believes.

"Bad" is subjective - different people will interpret it differently, and often in a manner coloured by their own experiences or ingrained perceptions. So when our conscience wants to distinguish between good and bad, what should it go by? Our own interpretations, or those of others, or those which are upheld as "universal"?

A few nights ago, I dreamed I was a confidant to a man who divulged his deepest secrets. He told me of his fears, and aspirations, and also the wrongdoings he had committed that plagued him incessantly. He had wronged others, and his apologies had never felt sincere enough and left him hollow. He had wronged himself, and his reparations were superficial at best. I listened and listened, but said nothing. When I woke, I wondered for a while what I would have said, had it not been a dream. Would I have consoled him, telling him what is in the past, is in the past? Would I have frowned upon these wrongdoings - based on what I am conditioned to think is "wrong", although I would most likely break his already frail heart? Would I have assessed these acts from my own perspective, and looked at him as a person, the same as me, a troubled soul wishing he could undo what he had done?

I honestly don't know. We are taught not to judge others, but we are taught wrong and right like black and white. The more of the world you see, the duller the distinction becomes - clarity fades and you are left with a gradient. The left and right of the spectrum are cast into darkness, and light shines upon middle ground you did not even know was there.

What do you do?

How do you decide?

What intentions lie at the heart of your choice?

- sj