Lux: Volume 1
Author: Jase Namigala
Copyright © 2015 by Jase Namigala
It Only Takes One
We're all cut from the same cloth, the same flesh and bone, just differing colors of brown.
Yet we all behave paper-thin, falling victim to society's every whim.
At what point does it stop, at what point do we stop being the puppets and rise up?
It just takes one person, one spark, to create a revolution. And it takes just that many people - one - to stop it. So if everyone one of us holds the power to change the world, what's holding us back?
Whatever you've wanted to say, say it. It doesn't matter who's watching or who's listening, disregard the stakes.
Step forward, and be brave. It only takes one.
The Gray Area
You again, the one who has always been the subject of my envy.
I plaster a forced smile upon my face as I talk to you, playing the part of the excited friend who has not seen you in so long; yet my face grows thick with the falseness of my smile
In everything, you are not my equal. You are my better, and that bothers me to no end. In your story, I would be the dastardly villain, who loathes you underneath my cheerful veneer. But the problem is not with you, it is with me. You are the paragon of perfection, and though I know you have your demons how I wish that knowing of their existence would fix the appearance of mine.
How can I be so wracked with envy that I am drawn to such methods as demeaning you daily in my mind? Thoughts of me being the superior haunt me, plague me. They will be, and already are, my destruction.
I am not pure.
I am a monster, and you will never know. You will never know how much I yearn to be the person that you are; and the worst part of it is that you seem to be my reflection, better than me in regards to everything, every little aspect of myself that I strive to improve.
How many times I have I watched you sing, wished with all my heart that I could be as good as you or as respected as you are - those times are countless; how many times have I pettily wished to have your outer beauty, wished that all the blemishes on my face and the imperfections that I have could just melt away?
The struggle between selfishness and selflessness is a war that is fought at all times, every day, a never-ending conflict that threatens to overwhelm me.
Yet, at the heart of it all, I have one simple question:
Why not me? Why do I not possess the virtues that make you such a treasured person?
Or maybe the question is not so simple at all. Sometimes it disappears into the abyss of my mind, but it comes back to taunt me when I fail, as I constantly fail to achieve the impossible standards that I set for myself.
Perhaps it's just a matter of perception. Maybe in someone else's story, I am the hero. But in this one, I play the part of the villain, with gusto.
And you know what they say: villains never get happy endings.
Vortex
Every day for the past three years has felt the same; they are all blurs of breathing, sleeping, talking, eating, helping, existing. All these parts blend together to create my life.
It's her typical lunch break routine: Go to the little cafe off Sixth Street, grab a peppermint mocha - extra whipped cream, screw the weather - and a half of the chef's special sandwich. For some reason, she has always looked forward to the change of sandwiches. The chef there, at the little cafe that she always forgot the name of, changes his pattern in which he doles out sandwiches every week. Of course, it could be the same pattern, with different ingredients, but...she hasn't really noticed anything yet. Is it sad that figuring out this seemingly random switching of sandwich flavors has become her central internal conflict? Perhaps. But honestly, nothing else really entices her at the moment. Maybe in a couple of weeks, or in several months, or in five years. On a whim, she closes her eyes and imagines it, and as she turns the corner she bumps into a person, who clutches at her, mouth opening and shutting without a flow of words coming out. This wordless exchange brings her attention to the top of the skyscraper not too far away from the cafe, and she realizes without speaking, in a matter of nanoseconds, that she knows this girl. She has known this girl for ages, memorized that shoulder-length black hair whipping around her petite figure.
I don't think anyone has ever seen me. I believe that no one has ever tried, and if they had it was out of pity. But I don't want your pity. I want to be known...but is it even possible? Is it even possible to ever truly know someone, commit to mind the myriad of faces they put on every single day? It no longer matters, I remind myself. My closed eyes bear the brunt of my haphazardly spread hair landing on my eyelids. I feel nothing.
She cannot help but obey the impulse spreading through her entire being, She pushes her way through the clamoring crowd, which seems to take forever, though she spits out rapid-fire pardons to the twenty or so people she shoves past. In the back of my mind, she is thanking herself for wearing flats, as opposed to heels, today. All she knows is that she needs to get to that spot. To the roof. To her. It feels as though her existence depends on reaching the top of the roof. Oddly, though, her brain doesn't register what the other girl is about to do as something cowardly. It whispers to her that this, this other girl is brave. Reckless. Powerful. And the girl stops, though just for a second, realizing that maybe she is just rushing up there because it's something new and she doesn't like it.
I hesitate and there is a pregnant pause, the cacophony of sounds filling my ears as I inhale. Don't you know, don't you all know that I am a coward? That I cannot even perform such a simple act. Something you've all gathered here to see; my death, and I am incapable of delivering a worthy show.
The stairs seem never-ending, like the Hydra's head; two more appear just as she finishes one, and by the time she bursts, more like stumbles, onto the roof, breathless, she has slowed to a pitiful walk. But she won't - can't - let that, or the new collection of sounds that have assailed her, a negative change from the sole sound of her pounding feet, distract her. She knows where she's going, and what she's going to do.
I open my eyes.
Did you really think that I was up here to save someone? I am not saving someone.
That figure surrounded by clean, crisp air, that black against the spotless blue sky - that is me.
I have planned out this moment and the actions that will follow for so long. For two years I have plotted and schemed, and today I have finally broken, finally persuaded my mind to "see" myself at the top of the building. Today I am brave. Today I will defeat my demons.
I shuffle forward, one foot in front of the other. I am almost at the ledge.
Wait, something tells me. It stops me plumb in my tracks, because I believed that my conscience had died a watery death, drowned in tears spent over a boy who would never love me, that whatever soul I had possessed died when I became estranged to all whom I had known.
My life flashes in front of my eyes. Whatever left there is, anyway. Because my life? That's just my work, the profession I had given 150 percent of myself to. The work that was the largest constant in my life, driving me to this moment.
Maybe...? No, my demons are calling me again. I have to silence them...can't let them control me as they have for the longest time...
One more ste - sto - ste -....
The echoes of desire and obligation haunt my mind.
Suddenly, a memory, buried deep in my mind from so long ago that I barely even remember who had spoken the words, segues into my mind.
"You are my savior."
I curse myself a thousand times. Four simple words, spoken by a faceless shadow, a friend who I had left a thousand times more broken than she had been before she met me. I am not in the business of fixing things. I am a destroyer, and I cannot change. This is my destiny. My broken body on the ground, surrounded by a pool of red crimson...a fitting end for one who has caused as much destruction as I have.
But this memory...this, this plague, has do
ne something to me. I am frozen to the spot. And now, my mind is fixated on the question - can I change someone's life again? Not because I am paid, not because of an obligation, but because I truly, wholly want to?
I had followed this path because it seemed right, to my parents, to my former friends, to my teachers; because I was tired of being selfish, and I was sick of hurting people, but never, never because it was what I wanted.
Is this what I want? Or am I just being selfish again; will my last act only satisfy my thoughts, desires, and needs? What about -
Someone's coming. I can hear their feet pounding dimly, below me, matching the speed and the tone drumbeat of my pulsing heart - rapid, urgent, pleading. And I know, no matter who it is or what they are going to say, I have made my choice. It has been the first thing I have chosen in a long time that feels like it satisfies me.
So I take a step.
Soul Science
He was the boy - no, boy was the wrong name for him. He was Lucifer's protégé, a demon wrapped in beauty, an angel covered in lies, one who outdid his master in almost every respect. He had a silver tongue and eyes filled with stars that had no room for her in their depth. She was pure, the angel with a heart as easily popped as a bubble, but burdened with a brain as heavy as rock. It weighed her down, kept her to Earth, where she fell and found him. He was everything she never wanted, but she fell for him anyway.
the inferno
It's too late for her, sobbing out her eyes as she lets her iridescent wings sweep around her, reflecting the light of the fire. It tries to fill up her eyes, attempting to sneak in and light something that has been long missing within her. But his words have brought her to the breaking point - push push push -
She stands. Taller than before, yet as short as ever, she stares into the night, stares into the ending and her eyes gleam like diamonds as she strides away soundlessly into the darkness. Her footsteps sound like a farewell.
He collapses and the spark is lit, but far too late for him to fan it, to let it do anything but disappear into embers.
the spark
He treats her like a gentleman. But in reality, he doesn't care. He cannot find in himself to. He is as cold as the first freeze of the darkest winter and he needs a particular firebrand to wake him up but she is not the passion he craves.
He kisses her anyway, falling into her hackneyed ways like a puzzle piece meant to belong there.
(Some days, he fools himself into believing that he does.)
He is an enigma, and he demands mystique in return.
She is a fool, a lovelorn being struck by Cupid's arrow, and the more she pours her heart into his hands, her soul into his heart, the easier it becomes for him to forget, for him to leave, for him to run (away from something real).
He has convinced himself that he is the scientist, the creator, and she is simply the inferior, the protégé. She can be a work of art, but she will never be the masterpiece, the crowning glory.
(She has never stopped trying to prove him wrong.)
the wood
They dance. Both literally and figuratively, a war of words flying between them faster than the speed of light as they twirl round and round, losing themselves in their shared avoidance of the truth. Ironic, but that was what they were; the embodiments of darkness and light, the daughter of Heaven and the son of Hell. They knew, as soon as they touched, that they were a spinning wreck toward disaster.
After all, what good can come of a black hole meeting a supernova? Of brown eyes that spoke of warmth meeting ones that rivaled the depth, the emptiness of the universe?
She knew he was bad and he knew she was good and they knew nothing was black and white.
They met in the gray area between destiny and duty, between right and wrong.
Of all the planets, they would always have Earth.
The Perks of Being a Wallflower
Hello there! I see you staring at me. Don't freak out, I won't do anything crazy. I just want to talk. You humans are such a strange species sometimes. Oh, wait - I forgot to mention, I'm a hallway. Out of all the things I've seen or experienced - graffiti is a fantastic sensation. Tingles all over - oops, wait, I'm getting off track. Anyway, the thing that fascinates me most about you humans is that fundamental emotion, Love. I see all kinds of lovers every day, black and white and gay and straight, I've seen it all. You know, they say that being a hospital hallway or an airport terminal allows you to experience more kisses and real love and breakups and tears, but I've always appreciated being born as a high school hallway - enough about me, though. Not that I can feel, at least not in the same capacity that you can, but I've always, in some way, envied a stable human relationship. The power of a thing, sight unseen, that can carry you throughout your life and bond you to another person, whether of your sex or of the opposite. It's always made me confused, how people can't tolerate others of the same sex loving each other...what's the difference, other than appearances? Like I said, everything about people baffles me. But I admire your capacity to feel, to reach out to others, to give and give and give even when there's nothing left.
Those kinds of lovers make me the saddest, though. The ones who could have loved each other maybe in different circumstances, but cannot because of forces unknown. The ones who give up before they know what could happen, or continue to give regardless. One of the memories that always stays in the forefront of my brain, or my equivalent of one, is the interaction between this girl and her crush. They would always pass each other next to me, and she would give him the clearest and most wistful of gazes, but when he asked her if anything was wrong, she would always answer with "I'm fine." It wasn't that she was, but because she already knew, and instinctively had known, that he would never care - that he didn't have the propensity to care for her. I despise those two words. I can't necessarily emote, but I've seen for years upon years what that simple phrase - usually a lie - can do to people, how it can crush their hopes with a single blow or erode their hearts away like the tide does to a cliff.
I don't like thinking about them. It makes me question the idea of love as you humans have thought of it. I feel like it's romanticized (high school English hot words are great for vocabulary improvement) to the point that it becomes a necessity for social survival, for acceptance, a life-float to hang onto when things get tough. Love is so trivialized, being used in everyday language to show appreciation for something when "like" or "admire" would be a much more appropriate term.
It just doesn't feel right. Love, for me, is shown through so many different ways that I can't even remember or count them all. But maybe that's why I admire it so. Because like people, it's multifaceted. It can be exhibited by a person picking up his classmate's papers; by a teacher who pushes her students to their limits because she knows their potential; by a boy who brings his boyfriend's favorite coffee drink to school because he sees his partner is sad; by the girl who isn't afraid to text her boyfriend first because she realizes their relationship is equal; by the boyfriend giving his girlfriend his jacket even though he knows he'll be cold. I hope you humans realize how lucky you are to feel love. To linger in the slow realization of it, to treasure it, to hold people's hearts in your hands and take care of them as if they were your own.
I can't say much, but before you go, I'll leave you with this: my happiest memories of love are first kisses, because they speak of promise and new beginnings and never-ending text threads and smiles so wide that they hurt your face and eyes that shine like newly placed fluorescent bulbs.
Well, you'll probably be off to somewhere; people are always so busy, but maybe you'll come back. But even if you don't - bon voyage, fellow hallway-walker. I hope you find the person that who makes every kiss feel like your first.