If God has created Adam for his own entertainment, and Eve for Adam's, then what did Eve design for her own entertainment, and what means does she create for that sake? Why does she excuse the act of stepping on her shadow, is she really this resilient on forgiveness or does she have a hidden agenda lurking behind? Who returned the balance to the equator of the world, and what elements constantly revive the madness of love?!
The unusual love shared by these very ordinary characters reverts into madness as it succumbs the world to them and them to the ancient world, will they constantly be revived by this beautiful sense of madness, or will they become memories, voicing a love echoed by each and every cell of their being, magnified by the touches of the hands of wind, tainted by fear and thoughts of independence into inhalation, if it ever exists in love and madness?!
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Folie A Deux
By Jessika Malo
Trafford PublishingCopyright © 2012 Jessika Malo
All right reserved.
Chapter OneHe breaks hearts as his maniac Eros touches the fragility of his victims, making them addicted, mysteriously adapted to his manipulated beings. He lies not, at the start, he tells the whole deal as it is: "This is not love, it is only breathing. You can accept or you can retreat, make your call now". Because man is a magnet for mystery being one himself, they all agree, feeling no hesitance or treachery from his side. They fall for the trap—this illusion love sets for them: if it is what he says it is, then it would be easier than having to unwind things by themselves. Or maybe the human urge to change is to blame here; the urge to play a role, to be the hero or perhaps the wounded victim, the one who tried but failed who gave the heart and received the ashes? Nevertheless, there was intrigue and seldom can a woman leave without acclaiming her piece of chocolate: her right and privilege, even on the tombs of her heart.
So, they know the deal, they hear the story. They sign the black contract with the devil, they excuse themselves the truth, accept the agony and its anguish for a slight chance of immediate pleasure. They might hesitate at first but they easily undergo the taming process when they want to. One by one, they have opened up for him, maybe not for the sake of spirituality but rather for that pleasure of showing the man that his partner is nude for him to coat her, that she is afraid for him to protect her, that she is in pain, to relieve her, in despair to console, to constantly revive.
He always proved to be that man not by being one but merely by projecting that image his beautiful young victims wanted to see. He never really had to make the effort; he was an illusionist playing with air particles the rhythm of magic. They would see the light though he concealed it, they would take the pill; for intrigue's sake, where there was no guarantee for healing.
Slowly, he would become important, eminent, and indispensable; they in turn become addicted, apt to give him all their worlds in return. He would never ask but he would take it all in the nick of the moment. When all is blossoming and spring is there, he would close the door forever, no excuses, no reasons, and no apologies. Why would he? He warned them that would happen. He didn't play games or trick their beings; he didn't rape their innocence or hope mercilessly, he is only executing the bindery contract, the black book of love he created. He'd only be blasting worlds he participated fully in creating, taking only what was his. No sin has been committed, this acting on whims is completely justified, he said he was bipolar, schizophrenic, at least multi-characterized, so why blame the crazy man, the honest man, for a wrong undone?
She was no better; she was an expert in breaking. Five lives she broke, five innocent souls fractured forever, stolen to the other world, in an ease of breaking a jar slipping through loose hands. She too was honest and thought herself of the kind material, the goodness of heart, the clarity of the mind, the openness of character. She managed a life of love to all things; she was full of energy and faith. She believed in the righteousness of the world to be prevailing and dominating in the end. She thought she had the hands of a healer, the vision of a philosopher, the words of the poet, and the emotions of a lover. She worshipped her existence, the sound of her expressions, and the blazing fire in her heart amounting to flow from her eyes. She portrayed herself as an angel brought on from the heavens to teach, mentor and enhance this world of evil and treachery; until the day came when she had to witness the brutality of those angel hands as they became the hands of the angel of death, sweeping off existence five lives.
She has corrupted five worlds, she keeps reminding herself. She has buried five souls in the soil of this world, planted by the hand of God. She doesn't believe she plunged out five youthful souls in an act of evil but what the hands have done shall remain remotely unforgivable.
An accident if to lower the shame of it; a car accident that occurs every two minutes worldwide is no comforting description. A car accident of a speedy car she drove, of an acceleration she ordered, of a whim she flourished, of a hand she owned, of blood she smelled. The guilt, the pain, the thoughts, the words, the feeling will always remain overwhelming, until one learns to silent some voices inside, to mute others, and to magnify that of acceptance.
After the jail time and the everlasting recovery process, everything changed, the perspective, the inclination of the sun ray as it beams on the fixed scenery ... She wouldn't call it a turning point, for every event has the ability to act as one, but it was surely a horizontal line descending. Everything was seen afterwards from a new standpoint, what is given became endangered, what is fact became an opinion. What was written, or what is undone, acceptance and detachment, detachment and dissection, seclusion and loneliness, grief to mourning, second chances or lost chances! She now needed a project, all that angelic light has left her presence, energy became frightening, freedom became expensive and every step has now a new resonance. Once she tasted the soil and went back to breathing air, the axis of normality shifted the accepted and the denied, the right and wrong. There is no right or wrong in her dictionary, there is "what there is" and "what ought to be but never existed." She coped even to this valiant new self of hers; she has always accepted what she is, although that can become overwhelmingly shocking. She could never fail to understand this multiplicity inside; she learned to love it, to integrate it within. Sometimes she is the night watcher, sometimes the audience, others the master player, but she is always herself. She has no shame in that defect; she only labels it that to be candid. She is not self-conscious about her pride thus she can always say her mind, repeat her thoughts, express her feelings and manifest her deep fears. Nothing that can be thought of, digested and felt cannot be expressed and put into words. That is her belief, that is her path.
Going back to peaceful times, she remembers her other self, the one she believes has now died or is hiding somewhere beneath the layers of her skin unable to be present on that hectic theatre. How calm she is now, how vital she was then, how stupidly happy, innate, and raw. She would wake up many days wearing an unexpired smile; it would not wash away easily. She would go to do her daily chores, unloaded by the aches of the day. Though she had no plain reason, she was happy or at least content, a feeling she fears she has lost forever. That is such a frightening notion, to flee one's own zone of comfort, joy or content. But looking back to the days of paradise lived; she feels the need to mourn.
There she was, dressed in white, with glowing eyes and an unfathomed joy on her lips. She went to the public library to meet her friends. There he was a body in front of her. Rough, plain and multi-dimensioned. Something cracked in her as time slowly slipped into a vortex of forgetfulness. Everything around began to fade into inexistence, to fall of presence, to lose its light dying out of breath. He could see her, through the walls of his sunglasses, through his obvious ignorance. He could look her in the eye of her soul. She.... able to be reached through was overwhelmed. "Is he seeing what I am seeing, is he lost as I am?" in a split of a mesmerized second, she became one with a complete stranger, alone in the middle of the busy world. All senses stopped their endless moaning, she couldn't but share a moment designed by the crafty hands of God, only for them.
She wasn't disturbed by the intrusion of an outsider entering her freely as if she was a right of his. They both are the strangers of a thousand faces and the million stories aching inside. They both became surfaced, two icebergs melting each other, in each other. That mild easy collision of two parallels meeting was over the head, out of the question, but marked forever in the memory of time. It could only be there and then; for the hope of the moment to transcend, to erect higher or lower, for two minds to expand when they were quickly slipping into reality is bliss, to be interrupted by a hand of another reaching for the face of Adam, reclaiming back him as hers was sad. Poor she, a victim in delusion of possession yet to find out the fatal truth: Calista thought.
It was all a game, life that is. That was his only fixed belief, that life was a game not to be ignored because time is on the clock and the race is forever on. One might leave losing or winning but he shall never leave without a fight. He might never sit on the bench for long or to wait endlessly for the chance to be seized, he shall not weep as the ball gets kicked right in front of his eyes or when he comes overwhelmed with joy so that he loses attentiveness of the master player; that was his route of life and he always knew what he was into until an act of fate barged on the game, corrupting all prior calculations.
Yes, he would continue to play for everything is a state of mind. Even being here is, walking forward or backwards, only a state of mind, a situation only to be judged in accordance with a standpoint, a mobile in a fixed world or perhaps a fixed point in a mobile world.
Whatever it was, she was bored and life was too short to be boring. She always came up with things, situations, problems and pains in order to feel herself feeling things. This was a smart strategy she played by. Calista was a servant of the senses. She figured out that life is only lived to the maximum when one accentuates the emotions through a magnifier. What is better than when the dear senses act as an illusionist? Through senses she would feel herself and that was a great pleasure for her. She would go outside during a blistering storm wearing only a light jacket permitting all the keen wind to enter inside, poking her warm aspirating skin. That contrast would create a soft blast inside of her as if the senses would combat each other in order to protect her. Thus giving her a sense of life she can only attain when that life is threatened. Pleasure through pain, acknowledgement of life through the fear of threatening it, that was the master strategy and it always worked for her. A straight line was never meant to go on and on unsettled, unbroken, and peaceful. If peace was the route for the happiness of this world then why hasn't this world taught itself to acquire it? Why has it always struggled peace, saying that it is the only dream that if fulfilled then paradise would be regained only to act otherwise, completely and utterly otherwise. This contradiction inside of her made her chill with life, so she searched for antidotes of death, of peace, of calmness, of numb straight lines.
Numbness was another huge fear residing deep in her soul. Why would one choose to silence his body, to mute his emotions, to stand still when he's apt to dance, to cry over a muffled world when that entire world was crying, calling for muffled souls? Many of her thoughts and feelings remained sound but still confined inside. Many notions would die short after birth for there was no breath in her environment. Even a paper can be so dull sometimes as not to be able to extract the truth and magic of a notion on paper. The ink should only be a catalyst for a thought carved on paper. But ink is so selfish that it too would take a scrap of the potion for itself, as would the air outside, and in the end the word would be incomplete, corrupted.
That is the deal with emotions once stated and declared, with souls when trapped inside bodies, with beauty when confused, with truth when concealed as when revealed.
She left the library, puzzled but not numb. She was alive empowering the smile drawn on her lips unmistakably by the incident. A complete stranger, in and out of her has left a very slight presence inside. She'd freeze that for later, for all the days without him. It is only out of smartness, she thought, to keep a piece of everything inside for future use for nothing is forever, nothing is for granted. She left with a grandeur inside, one that is in touch with a counter-grandeur; stranger she hoped he'd become an inhabitant. It is only natural for man to hope for the continuity of things inside of him, to feel as a God, slave as he might be.
Chapter TwoHe wears no smiles, he doesn't contaminate his face with laughter, he rebukes its contagious sound; he survives happiness and eludes its cages. He doesn't feel that is the key, to numb oneself of joy means to numb it ultimately of pain. He throws the keys of joy unconditionally; no despair will make him go all the way around back to emotions. Emotions mean fragility, fragility means being finite and to what was no beginning, there is no end.
He tries to track down the depth of this sorrow which so resembles him, that it almost feels an integral part of him, not a disentanglement or a phase whatsoever. Sorrow is him, it doesn't attack, retreats, or visits in moderation, it is always there, always with him, always him.
Meditating the dimensions of this sorrow makes him an easy target for all negativity, like a magnet eager to pull over the mattress of an organized life as in an act of nature. Thinking is a dangerous game and danger is what he knows too well, for it can't be missed nor mistaken. But he can't completely fathom the reason of this occupying sorrow. Reasons seem so diminutive in comparison, even if mounting up through the years, all acts of misfortune, all evil, all jealously of fate, all consequences of previous acts, all karma; the sun will never be this intoxicating or this powerful. It must be intrinsic, or ancient. It must be that his vessel was broken or abused or maybe over abused. It must be that he has inherited this load of sorrow from precious lives and previous selves, from an unknown tragedy failing to be completely immersed that it keeps showing now and then. It must be that a prehistoric pain has settled in his bosom long before he knew time and time knew him, before the memory lanes were open and life was lit in him.
Sorrow comes down as rain on him, tiny pebbles of rain on his skin, it doesn't hurt nor does it heal, it is only pebbles awaking him from a lasting dormant session bound to be interrupted. He doesn't mind tears. Silent soft tears are never to disturb his peace; on the contrary, they aid it to a sublime state of mind. There is nothing more profoundly pure than acknowledging one's purity and humanity, than embracing the weakness inside and lifting it up to power, power of acceptance.
Even when he was first brought to life he made a scene. The delivery was extremely painful as his mother nearly died. It lasted too long and she lost too much blood. The placenta was all over and her bodies nearly chocked as she was giving her breath of life to her newborn. The mercy of God was as generous as it laid its bountiful hands when necessary. Adam was born. He hates that, now that she's dead and gone. He hates that he provoked all the pain, that he started that dilemma, that he characterized that little villain who jeopardized the life and sanctity of a whole family, a world of its own, just to start up his. He blames himself, dearly and severely and wishes not to let that sorrow flee his mind, not to let it all go into silence, into forgetfulness. For once it does then he has forgotten her, he must never forgive himself such a sin, grand in every sense.
All that sorrow, is it digestible? Not a chance. Is it changeable? He tried all means. Is it dissectible? The sum of all is the magnitude of each single standing alone. Then what to do? He tried to play mind games but he could not be easily tricked. He tried all possible ways to look beyond, look away, to look aside, to look inside but the formula stayed constant = pain. So he tried a new strategy, one which might just work being all that mystically logical. If he could accept it, if he could see that mountain of pain, acknowledge its presence, confess its multitude and grandeur over him, if he could be that candid and respectful of his sorrow then maybe, just maybe, his sorrow will consume itself, salvation! It would still be there but he would feel it less and less until nothing at all. Like a hole filled with its own dirt until it is a surface again. But that also meant that he will have to be numb, feeling very slightly about positive inclinations of the soul, about joy, happiness, bliss, love ... A sacrifice should be made, a sacrifice he thought he can execute not knowing that he will be sacrificing his own heart for tentative peace.
Excerpted from Folie A Deux by Jessika Malo Copyright © 2012 by Jessika Malo. Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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