Wayfarer

by The Plebeian

XLIV

The full moon still shines, and he has escaped the room. He stands atop a Manehattan high rise, his heart exposed to the open wind. Twin streams fly out from his eyes, no longer withholding their heavy tides. He releases his lonely despair out into the sky, wishing to feel just her touch, just the calm love of her being. The moon and the stars cast their light on him, and try to cast away his heavy shadows, hopelessly trying to save him from his fury. However, he is inconsolable, impossibly lost. Indeed, the wayfarer has never been lost, but his sobs revisit him over and over in an irregular tempo, threatening never to cease, never to wane or ebb, to always take him over, once and for all.

Gone. She is forever gone. He shouts it now, his mouth wide open, his eyes looking guiltily at the stars. She will never return, their child will never be. He will never again be complete, a broken shard, unable to cope with the being he was once satisfied to be. He is shattered inside and out, his wings outstretched as if to leap off, but he is chained down, continually pondering his escape. He does not deserve the escape. Not until he finds it.

He destroyed her. He may blame himself. If he had left her, if he had never loved her, she would be alive. She does not want him to think such thoughts, he tries to console himself. She exists no more, she cannot want anything for him. She is somewhere happier, he thinks, beyond his deadly reach. If he had let her go, if he had flown away, she would have been saved. She could get over it, could recover. She would still be alive.

She would not. He saw it in her eyes that day. He saw the extent of the shadow. If anything, it would have sped her on to her death, having given the shadow enough power to overcome her. Is that it? Has she always been doomed to die because of him? What if he merely left her alone in the first place? He saw the painting. She could not have gone on much longer like that, seeing hardly enough light to find her way through the nighttime colors. Is that all he is meant to do? Watch her die, give her the best life possible before fate could overtake her, even as he himself becomes death’s agent.

He could never have known, he tries to console himself, but it is merely a testament to his ignorance. What has he forgotten to give up for her? The accuser remains, watching his question at work in the wayfarer’s mind. Yes, he is the wayfarer again. He is no longer the father. He is no longer her love. He deserves no such titles, for her grace is gone out of him, leaving only a bitter self-resentment. The storm rages on. He is free all he wants to fly on, he mocks. Every horizon is open for him, beckoning he return and revisit, for they have so much to discover for him now. After all, there is no restrictive child, no pregnant artist to weigh him down. Go, fly away, foul thing. Find happiness in the cities, the landscapes. Go find the beauties of flaws, since they are so profound. He blames himself as he is wont to do. Even now, he knows he forgets everything she fought for, just another insult to her grace. He lies, says he cannot help it. He cannot let it go so easily. It is merely moments in the past, not even a painting away. Is that all that destroys grief? Is it merely a matter of time, as they say? Must he merely wait like before, as if somehow the spiral should turn back, forget him, and in turn let him forget her.

Will he forget her? That is an even worse thought, that he should allow himself to forget the greatest part of his life, just to destroy the worst with it. Is that all he is good for? Destroying? How strange that a wanderer should become a harbinger of doom, entirely harmless at heart, yet managing to harm. In the end, it matters not his heart. She is gone, and all of him with her. Her smiles, her kisses torment him. Never will he feel her soft caress again. Never will he lead her to a new frontier. He is wholly and truly alone now. Separated by what, he asks himself. What holds him away from her? It is a mortal barrier. He could cross it in a mere few seconds, a skydive. He could easily meet her, all grim sentiment aside.

He has forbidden it, though. Not until he answers the accuser, the tree. Until he has an answer, he is nothing but a poor vagrant, undeserving of notice, undeserving of grace, undeserving of the comfort of death. He is despicable, he decides. Time goes on, and will be his penance. He is all alone, now, and must find his mistakes alone. Only then will he be absolved.

And yet out of the moonlight comes a calm. Is it her touch? It is a faint reflection, yes. He must make an awful scene for her, and he regrets the emotions he has filled the air with, and somehow he immediately feels forgiven, greater, there is nothing to forgive. He is understood. But, as he tries to embrace it, it shies away, instead pointing him to a horizon. He is not finished; he has an answer to find. Indeed, he has his wings. He is free to once more don the mantle of the wayfarer. He will not find his answers here, but as he feels the weight of the second bag on his shoulders, the scratch of the feather, once more in his mane, he knows where he must go, a plurality. There are scenes to revisit.