it's marlowe to you, sucka.

[like neon lights]

His eyes felt sticky, like someone had crept into his room that night and glued them shut. His thoughts were cluttered, forced from their quiet recesses into the spotlight, where they pulled a Carrie manuever and killed the rest. The quiet thoughts, the ones he always pushed away, those were the ones that were always the most dangerous. He swore he could feel his brain matter melting into a slushy goo, ready to rush out of his ears at any given second. Marlowe would lose his mind again, like he had lost it so many years before. He'd vaulted right into a catastrophic cacophony of pain and regret, countered only by the actions of one writer during one evening.

Maybe Marlowe couldn't handle being happy. Such a foreign and eerie thought for an artist that had spent the better part of his life mourning lovers and facing the rejection that came from people who could never truly understand him. The constant state of worry fell over him when he realized that there was more to his friendship than he let on, when something ran deeper than he thought it had -- the worry embedded like a plague, front and center in his mind (coming out of it's recess), painting gruesome portraits of the way it would all end up. Nothing was ever just happy and he had trouble believing anything otherwise.

Red paint smeared the white canvas as Marlowe broke from his catatonic state. It had been well into the afternoon when he finally emerged from the cocoon of his blankets. Demitri's insisting went unheard until something snapped inside of his head and the urge to paint suddenly overwhelmed him. Now smeared in the plethora of color that had engulfed his imagination, the canvas took shape. Large as it was, the message was disturbingly poignant: Nothing will survive. Words scrawled in black over a burning cityscape, it's demise so meticulously sculpted by the painter's steady hand. Locked in the room with his work, he steadied himself in the corner and slid into a sit.

"It isn't fair..."

The only words that had left his mouth since the institution and he hadn't let anyone in to hear them.

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ June 26, 2004 12:22 PM: Message edited by: you make me shallow ]</font>

[like neon lights]

The expression on his face was self explanatory and he wouldn't be providing answers either way. Sealed in a vault of silence, swimming amongst his inner premonitions, Marlowe succumbed to the stinging fear with a sickening apathy. Everything he knew would one day be lost, he realized, and everything he loved would never love him back. Certainly to a degree, but never with the same ferocity and conviction that he felt. Nobody would ever love the way Marlowe loved, running so deeply beneath his skin, boiling his blood and clogging his arteries. In more cognizant times, he would have acknowledged the epiphany earlier but these were not them and he was not ready to lay at the feet of the supreme knowledge, but merely ready to bow. He could not accept that there was no other to love him thoroughly, though the doubt lingered on the tailend of every affirmation. He did not pretend to think that his soul possessed a mate, but perhaps a fair fit would do.

Marlowe longed for someone to prove his doubts wrong, but neglected to notice who already stood before him.

[like neon lights]

Healing is the hardest part...

I can't regenerate another limb, I can't regain a sense if it's lost and I can't imagine living without his tender touch or facing old age without him.

I don't know if I can heal anymore. I wish I never had to do it again. I wish, I wish, I wish, I wish.

If wishes were fishes I'd have an aquarium.

Marlowe scribbled little lines of nothing across a little notebook that he kept tucked in the backpocket of his favorite pair of jeans. His hair was longer now, the ends lingered near his eyes and obstructed most of his view. He sat perched upon a railroad line, staring off into space -- lamenting the world, lamenting what he would soon lose -- feeling so sorry for himself.

There was nothing else he could do.

Maybe if I found a train, I could get it to come down the track, I could get it to leave me deceased.

<font color="#FFCC00" size="1">[ July 26, 2004 09:09 PM: Message edited by: you make me shallow ]</font>

[like neon lights]

Somebody that I haven't seen in a very long time told me that I looked thinner than before and a lot older than twenty six. I know I look older than twenty six because I feel fifty three and I know that I'm thinner than I used to be because I'm a malnourished artist. The starving artist imagery is what you have to keep in mind when going for a certain type of look. She didn't laugh when I told her that because most people don't think they should laugh at me anymore. Maybe that's what pushed me over in the first place -- the lack of laughter, the way people felt bad smiling around me. I've lost a lot in twenty six years but I haven't lost my sense of humor.

I believe I have misplaced my sense of style though, as black has become my passion. Perhaps I'm expressing myself in more physical ways now? Something the psychiatrists sit around and debate about for hours, no doubt. "Why does Marlowe wear black now? Does he feel unclean? Does he feel unworthy of white?" No, I just like black. "Why is he growing his hair out? Does he want to cover his face? Does he want to hide from the world?" No, I just like long hair. I was tired of being jealous about the way everybody else's hair looked, so I decided to get some of my own. It's taken a while, but it's so long that I can pull it back now -- I like that. It makes me look sexy, some girl at the bar said so. I believe random girls when they say so.

I wonder how this is all going to end, this little mess I've gotten myself into. I wonder, I wonder, I wonder, I wonder...

I have decided to take up smoking again, in the meantime. It calms my nerves.

[like neon lights]

Marlowe sat in his bed, hovering over the old photographs that lay scattered haphazardly before him. Yellowed and decaying, their brittle edges threatened to crumble beneath even the most gentle pressure of his fingertips. These were the portraits from his childhood; photographs from the past that lingered in front of his eyes like purple spots after accidentally glancing into the sun. France had always been full of sun, the Southern area around Nice where he was from. The warm climate and cool autumns reminded him yet that the cycles never changed, that he himself would never change. It was the cycle of life, though his was slower than most. Much slower. His fingers still quaked after the impulsive conversation with Demitri, the pictures magnified the effect -- it was like everything came rushing back when he opened up that box, everything that he'd always wanted to forget but never allowed himself to. There was no erasing the past and perhaps a visit to L'Atreaux would put these demons to rest.

This was something he had shared with only two people in the entire world now, the sort of secret that would get taken to the grave and now Demitri knew. He deserved to know. The writer deserved the entire world for the things he had been through, the things that Marlowe himself had put him through. Words would never be enough to thank the Russian and no amount of paint in the universe would fill the canvas worthy of the praises that should have been sung for Demitri Petrov.

But Marlowe wasn't going to give him a canvas and he wasn't going to sing him a song -- none of that would do. The artist was going to give Demitri what he wanted...

A ring and words that meant eternity.

[like neon lights]

<div style="text-align: center;">September 17</div>
Demitri...
I haven't left you, I'm only losing my mind. I don't know if I can live the life of a domestic anymore, I don't know if I can just settle down and be stuck in one place for the rest of my life. I don't want to do that, but I feel like I've done so much already, this is the final frontier. I bet that doesn't make any sense, but in my head, it all fits so perfectly. But I haven't left you, Demitri, I'm only taking an extended walk -- not even a vacation, just a little jaunt. I hate to say that it isn't you, it's me; it really is me, though. I feel like marrying you, having a real life and not being flakey is the absolute right thing to do. But my bones are urging me to run, trying to get me to explore the places I haven't seen -- even if they're few and far between.

But I'm tired of running, I'm tired of listening to my every whim. They're stupid, most times, I realize that. However, part of me believes, truly, that I won't be able to give you what you need. You offer me constant stability, unconditional love -- and do I give you that in return? Love, I do. In boundless amounts, for everyone to see. But stability, I do not. I can't even pretend to offer you that because tomorrow my mission might be to see Tahiti or climb to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. That isn't something you wish to do for the rest of your life, I know it isn't. Nobody wants to.

I'm not leaving you, I'm only going away for a little while. I need to gather my thoughts and experience things that mean nothing to me. You have been the greatest experience of my life thus far and I don't wish to lose it -- but the part of me that screws things up (I believe it's a defect in my brain) is telling me to leave it behind so that I can remember it as a good time, not something that I eventually lost.

I love you Demitri and I hope that you can love me after everything that I've put you through.

But I understand if you can't.

Marlowe.

[like neon lights]

He knew what he was supposed to do, but the motivation had left his fingertips hours ago. The artist in him was screaming, dying to get it's hands on a paintbrush or piece of charcoal or even a pen -- anything to make the pain go away. But this pain was the only tangible thing that linked him to this world, it was the only thing that made him feel like he was a human being. If it weren't for the dull ache in his chest and the guilt pounding against his skull, Marlowe wasn't sure that he'd even know whether he was awake or if this was just another nightmare woven by his unstable subconscious. There were things he knew, fears that pulled on his heartstrings and picked his brain, that he could never tell Demitri. The Russian would never understand, he knew because he could never explain it correctly, and even if he was willing to try... well, Marlowe was sure that Demitri wouldn't want to go on anymore. Not with him.

There were so many words that needed to be exchanged, so many scenarios that could have been played out -- but the writer was unwilling and the only option left in his brain, he decided, was to retreat to France. He had to talk to the priest. Father D'Leancre. Surely, he would know what to do. For so many years he had mentored the young artist, sculpting him into a specimen worthy of the Louvre. Disappointment would crease his oldened (wisened) features, Marlowe knew, but the swell of the old man's heart would outweigh any resentment. He would help, he would know what to do -- and even if he didn't know for sure, he would give Marlowe the strength to do what Marlowe himself knew was right.

Back to France, back to France... the words echoed deep in the hollow walls of his chest, rattling his self esteem. Could he really go back? Could he really handle all of the faces from his long-forgotten past? Marlowe had turned his back on the city once, turned his back on Lindsey's grave, and to return would admit defeat. But he was defeated, he was broken. There were higher powers at work here; powers that were going to determine the rest of his life. Could he really get married again? What if Demitri tired of him? What if he tired of Demitri? The fickle ways of his restless heart were unbeknownst to most (for the man seemed so genuine at first glance -- if only people knew) and he would keep it as such. But what if there were circumstances beyond his control? Was he willing to give himself to the writer for all eternity and everafter?

He didn't know for certain, but the fact that he boarded the plance for France spoke volumes. The man who had taken and left many lovers in the gutter was determined to resolve this issue for one -- determined to truly live, without regret. Or at least to try.



The Communist was going to be the death of him someday, he would laugh; love would be the end. All it would take is time.

[like neon lights]

Do I deserve this? Do I deserve his forgiveness? Do I deserve a second chance? Is the world going to tilt off of it's axis if I'm happy? Am I allowed to be happy, even after everything that's happened? Has he really forgiven me? Will he keep his promises? Will he come back to L'Atreaux with me? Is he going to enjoy the gift the sleepy town will bestow upon him? Is he really going to love me, is eternity really what we're going to have?



"I don't care."

Vocal words for fears that were not vocalized and Alexei cast him a sidelong glance, hardly pausing to wonder what kinds of things were running through the artist's head. His brother had informed him, so long ago, that Marlowe was slightly off -- and if he hadn't, he would have known moments after making his acquaintenance anyway.

"Demitri?" The artist was padding down the hallway. "Demitri? Come on! Show me around Moscow." He so hoped things could go back to the way they used to be... even though he knew everything was different.

On a day like today
I looked at you and I --
Saw something in the way
you stared into the sky.
I saw you were sick
and tired of my wrong turns
If you only knew the way I feel,
I'd really love to tell you.

But I could never seem to say the words I needed to.
On a day like today no other words would do.

I saw you were sick
and tired of my wrong turns,
If you only knew the way I feel
I'd really love to tell you.

But I can never find the words to say and I don't know why...
I can't find the words to say and I don't know why...

-- Keane ``On a Day Like Today``

[like neon lights]

This was not regret. He kept telling himself that it was, by no means, any form of regret. He had done the right thing, there were no doubts in his mind about that. But France... he wasn't sure he wanted to be here anymore.

There were things about Marlowe that Demitri did not know. It wasn't intentional, just couldn't bring himself to share them. He couldn't bring himself to share a lot of things. What was it about his past that he was so afraid to reveal? Very few knew. He supposed those that did weren't even alive anymore. That wasn't a bad thing.

It was the middle of the night when he finally made up his mind. Insomnia had plagued him for days on end until this realization struck -- he didn't waste a minute either, leaping onto the sleeping Demitri and poking him awake. (The writer loved him.)

"We need to go home, France is making me crazy."

...right. Like it was France...

[like neon lights]

Isn't it funny how things can go so wrong, so fast?



Shaving your head is not a good thing. It might seem like it, but it's not. Those are my words of wisdom to pass along to future generations.

That, and don't become a painter. It's only purpose is to torment you, if you have the gift. It's painful.

andimissmyhair.