He was foolish as foolish can be when he visited Ireland that summer.
He thought he sought exculpation – and then, for a while, real love; instead, the process was quite another: in the event, and in retrospect, and in re[viewing] it all, it was excommunication in the most brutal terms that was being applied to his being.
Excommunication in the sense of friendship; excommunication in the traditional sense of family; excommunication attempted of place, as well – though Dublin is too powerful a town for the excommunication by alleged lover to impede one’s remaining in love with what he would still argue the fairest city in his whirled.
Excommunication of reality, most importantly: for they knew his diagnosis, knew full well how much he’d resisted it, knew his soft spots, knew (or so they thought) how to dig deep into fragile underbelly.
Yet the underbelly they’d encouraged him to acquire, the dark one more than the fragile one, the one they all carried around like badge of courage (even where cowardice was manifestly more the plan), wasn’t quite as fully formed as, by now, it should’ve been – at least for their profoundly selfish purposes.
And so to the future – the real yellow, the true colour (not the once so attractive yellow of C, nor even the now terribly historical blue of K; in fact, not even faithless T for that matter: not even the bonds supposedly close which the latter had once pretended to manifest: that now ex-brother he had formerly confused as blood) … and so this yellow of light, this wonderful yellow of white, presented itself as a future oath of order: the unique and never excommunicating pleasures of thought and creation, above all other discourses and dynamics.
And so to the pleasures of community, served from wisely ivoried towers of analysis and paralysis; and so to those ever so touching faiths in quietly dramatic evidences; and so to the pleasures of battling with blank page; and so to the rage of getting it just right.
Those were now to be his pleasures: safe and sound and bound to limit his emotions, that is true; but even so, and even more recent, his emotions had surely demonstrated their inability, their fakery, their falsehood, their total incapacity to assess and understand the veracity of other – presumably beautiful – minds.
And so in this, and for these reasons, he fell out of love – decided firmly to do so – with lived love and its messinesses forever; and so in consequence, and as a result, he learnt to find the substituting strategies which even cold fish like himself did clearly need …
… much, in fact, as one who badly chooses to play a curious card game of variegated pursuits, and then realises that replacing reality with a constructed harmony is by far the most sensible rite and passage to follow here.