DISCLAIMER: this short story is a purely fictional representation of a course of events occuring through the dramaturgical view of the main character/narrator in first person. Any similarities or resemblance to actual life scenarios are purely coincidental. By reading this material, the reader certifies they are of legal age for viewing literature with explicit content. This short story contains graphic sexual content of a homosexual nature and those offended by such content should not view this literature.
FOREWARD: this is my first posting in the Nifty Archives, hopefully the first of many. As the Preface is a bit vague, I thought it prudent to give you a short synopsis of "The Lacrymosa" as a whole, without divulging too much of the plot. Basically, it is a gay romance between two young men, high school age respectively, during their senior year. Both characters come from interesting backgrounds and both characters have many issues of their own to contend with, not to mention all the things they shall have to endure together throughout the course. In spite of all the obstacles and shortcomings they're faced with, their passions eventually come to fruition and their love blooms, only to... well, you'll just have to read to find that out :-)
CONTACT: heyitsme151@excite.com All comments are VERY welcome.
Karl Bornemisza THE LACRYMOSA
PREFACE
In our short, finite lives, we experience many things. Undergo many changes. We discover things about ourselves that, more often than not, are characterized by ensuing strife, struggle, guilt, and displeasure. We suffer from knowing plain well the painful realities that wrap themselves around the very fabric of our souls like a dozen heavy, rusted ironclad chains. With each step we take, the chains incessantly rattle and clank, a constant reminder of our shortcomings. Of our inadequacies. Our... realities.
The struggles one endures throughout one's lifetime are the epic poems and verses that write the novels of our lives. They are the Iliads and the Odysseys. They are the Homerian tales of heroic perseverance, of courageous longevity of strength and composure, and of unwavering domineeringness, even amidst the twilight of obscurity. Every passing day, every waking moment, every full, cool breath is a continuation of this ongoing saga of sadness and strife. The continuous procession of perpetual calamity and woe, uninhibited save an affectionate smile or a kind word. But it's amazing what those few moments of happiness can do for a person. It's befuddling how a passing glance of approval or a fleeting word of flattery can uplift a person's spirits, even if but for a moment or two. How a few genuine moments of satisfaction and complacency can seem to be enough to sustain us for a lifetime.
Within these struggles and within this strife is wherein the true beauty of mankind rests. Pain, as they say, is beauty. And darkness, as they say, is art. Those few moments of happiness and serene repose are like blots of cool green and light yellow on an otherwise dark and gloomy canvas. The canvas itself is vast and expansive. It is the canvas on which our lives are drawn and painted. We, the artist, pour out all of life's emotions onto this great piece of parchment, never stopping the furious, rhythmic strokes of our brush for but an instant. And in that instant we take a step back and we look at our masterpiece-in-progress. We reflect and note the imperfections, the spots that could use a bit of improvement, perhaps. And the parts that are just so horrendous that we'd prefer not to ever glance upon them again. We might try to go back and correct past errors and wrongs in the work only to realize, in the height of our vain futility, that we have only made matters worse. Not to mention wasted precious time needed to finish painting the grand opus of life.
There are many lessons to be learned in that analogy. Among them, and certainly not the least important of which, is that every human life is a work of art. Every single one is fragile and delicate. Something to be treasured and cherished. Examined and gazed upon in awe. Every human life is glorious and numbingly magnificent in it's own right. Just as the beauty of Mozart's music and the beauty of Stravinsky's music are in theirs. But something unifies the both of them, no? Something conjoins the two almost seamlessly. Is it originality? Or brilliance? Or genius? Perhaps. But the clearer and more logical answer is, to be succinct, the humanity of the two. Humanity is beauty just as pain and darkness is beauty. Just as poetry is beauty and just as music is beauty. Essentially, the human life itself is a culminating expression of the amalgamation of all these things. A perfect form of beauty, if you will.
But if the human life itself is perfect beauty, then that begs the question that we must all ask ourselves in considering such a thought: is perfection capable of perfection? Having achieved perfect beauty, is it possible to become any more beautiful? It's a daring and perplexing question but, like it's predecessor, the answer is clear, simple, and succinct. Certainly! Of course! Yes!
I have known such beauty. Beauty that transcends the bounds of perfection. Beauty that, when looked upon for the first time, or even for the millionth time, leaves one dazed and speechless. The sort of indescribable warmth and all encompassing awe that envelops one's senses and intoxicates and fills every crevice of one's whole being. It makes a person weak in the knees and sends them buckling at the hinges. It is beauty that is as deep as the ocean and as endless as the night sky. Beauty with the radiance of a thousand shimmering stars and the glory of a hundred voices resonating in rich, sonorous harmony. It is an experience, suffice to say, that rarely occurs once in a lifetime, let alone time and time again.
I suppose I could call it love if I wanted. But what is love? Is love not the overwhelming feeling of emotional attraction of one person to another? Or maybe, as some detractors might put it, love is simply a series of biochemical reactions within our bodies, the equivalent of which can be found in consuming large quantities of chocolate. It is, simply put, nothing more then a psychological euphoria that we believe to be genuine affection and love but is, in actuality, only a biological process. To those that would be proponents of this hypothesis, I would ask if they have ever experienced the "biochemical reaction" known as "love". Because if they had they would never have proposed such a blatant absurdity. Love is so much more then a temporary hormonal imbalance. Love is what drives us. Love is what completes us as people and fills our souls. Love is what has driven thousands of years of human art, literature, music, and culture. We are as inescapably tied to our love as we are to our greed, our hatred, and our fear. Love is one of the few things that is capable of providing us with those few moments of ardent freedom from otherwise omnipresent pain and hardship. And, naturally, love is also quite capable of perpetuating that same pain and hardship and even magnifying in ten times over.
If that is what love is, and it is, then I most certainly was inescapably in love. Head over heels, in fact. Perfect love. Transcending the bounds of life itself. Perfect pain and misery. Perfect beauty. That is the Lacrymosa. Ah, that day of tears and mourning!