to ARISTOPHANES and back

"Humans were originally created with 4 arms, 4 legs, and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate parts, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves..."

Sometimes, I like to revel in the feeling that is the morning -- the briskness of the air, particularly in autumn, combined with the gradual shaking off of exhaustion that plagues me on a daily basis. REM sleep, I love it and hate it; it ruins my life but makes my day, empowers the emboldened and erases my ability to think. I spend the first hour of the morning battling it viciously, alternating between waking dreams and mourning the loss of my bed.

After the memorial dedicated to my 1000-thread count sheets, I start stumbling (driving, same thing) towards the nearest Starbucks, hating that my badge is positioned perfectly to dig into my pelvic bone like a terrier with a vendetta.

Sometimes, I come to Starbucks feeling as though I am quite literally abuzz with positive energy. My enthusiasm is just enough to be categorized as borderline fanatical; I fantasize about the great strives I will take towards tackling paperwork and piles of reports, the people I will persuade with my "Expert" level and black belt degree in verbal jiu jitsu (judo is too mainstream). But there are other days, days like today, in which I find Starbucks to be a virtual haven from the mess.

Sometimes, I use coffee shops as brief escapes from the idiocy that occasionally commands my life.

I wander in, get my drink, shove sunglasses on, stumble out. Try to recall that I'm supposed to walk regally when in a suit, but realize that I end up with some blue collar swagger that I don't know how to get rid of. I find one of my "'til death do us part" comrades outside, drowning what is bound to be at least two lengthy paragraphs worth of irritation in her cup while sitting at an isolated table. I manage a sleepy grin, silently slide into a chair, light a cigarette and sip away.

"Tell me about him," here it comes, I know my voice has that laughing but knowing tone to it. I blow the smoke off to the side, can't help the somewhat guilty smirk (smoking, it kills). "You've got that look, and I've got one hour to listen. The clock starts now."

Sometimes, I like to set aside time to comment on how much the rest of the world fucking blows.

"...but only one of them managed to keep the brain."

I’m an early riser.

It’s the time of the day where my mind feels most clear. Often I feel glued to the rush of everything else, eyes wrenched open and sore and it is times like those where I fully believe that the eye is part of the brain because God knows, my mind suffers for it. I walk in dead air, live in a state of stale confusion, and my brain just clicks, grins (this dry sort of sarcastic grin) as if to say: Well, you asked for this, didn’t you?

You asked for the numb. Yes, I reply. Sure. I asked for it.

You take a sip of mocha. Sure.

Forgive my incoherence, if you will.

Clock starts now, she says, and I laugh, some dusky mix of cobalt gaze colliding with my own black—Succubus, a lover once said—Sip. Clear throat.

“Forgive my incoherence, if you will.”

But...

“Which him?” And I laugh again, tired. “They come in week-long intervals. I’m tired, E.” And I inhale, stop—stay there, teasing my lungs—exhale. Cant my head towards the young blonde thing nearing our table. “Let S take the centre stage first.” E and I exchange glances, and I feel she sees right through me, and I take another sip, and feel strange gratitude, and the morning returns our wry, dry smiles.





It has been said that we are frequently unaware of change; we do not see it from day to day. Then, one morning you wake up and change smacks you in the face and suddenly you realize how different everything really is. You wake up and, all at once, everything is different.

So they say. I don’t buy it. Day in and day out for two years… everything in my life has remained remarkably the same. I wake up every morning. Splash frigid water on my face. Apply generous amounts of concealer to the black circles under my eyes. Nothing changes. I am a creature of habit, a slave to routine.

The things people say between the sheets – it doesn’t mean anything. Doesn’t change anything. Words whispered into the darkness. Tomorrow, everything will be just as it was yesterday.

“Good morning.” A voice rings, disrupting a trail of thoughts. I had lost track of time – autopilot having kicked in the moment I walked out the door. I didn’t respond, just nodded and crooked one corner of my mouth upwards. Mornings are rarely good and I hate to be dishonest with strangers simply for the sake of politeness. My fingers wrap around the paper cup that holds the only substance known to God that will get me through morning meetings. Another polite head nod and I exit. Autopilot kicks back on and by the time I have realized it, I am stepping out of the car. A hip nudges close the door.

Joined by two others, I sip avidly at the too hot liquid in my cup before attention is turned my direction. A head tilted in my direction. I pause a moment, lips pursed and I set down my cup.

“The heart wants what it wants.” I say, as if I am some sort of poet or philosopher. But it is a lie. “And the heart is a fucking idiot.”

Again, I pause. In two years, what has changed? What is there to say? I have lost myself to a nagging desire. An apparent impossibility. A goal I will never reach. Inhale, slowly. Taking everything in. As if I can breathe in two years’ worth of time and decipher what I should have learned as time passed. Nothing comes. I exhale.

“What’s he like? He’s stupid. He’s selfish. He’s exceedingly difficult. He has blue eyes. Sometimes so blue that I can’t look at them. And when he looks at me – there is a certain expression that I cannot shake.”

I can’t make heads or tails of my own thoughts. Confusion hits me like a ton of bricks. I take a sip of my coffee, run my fingers along the plastic lid. I look from one face to the other.

“I am addicted. I don’t know what to do. I put myself through the same hoops day in and day out. I assume things will change. That I can make him see the light.” Pause, inhale. Exhale. Look back and forth at the faces surrounding me. “Unfortunately, he won’t change because I tell him to.”

That’s the problem with men. They don’t change.

Two years later.

Nothing is different.