Tacky Fantasy

Raph al Guul

Some things are difficult to explain. So difficult, you’re tempted to fall into worn-out clichés or superficial flattery just because you can’t find the appropriate words to bring it to a point. Of course she means more to you than anything else, and of course you perceive her beauty with dizzying intensity. But those are cheap words you can buy at every street corner in bags of dozens. If words could do justice to the truth, they would have to be special words. Some people think it’s simple, that you could pick one particularly special word to make yourself understood. Words like “love”, or “beauty”, or maybe “magic”. Perhaps your word would be “home”, and it would make no sense at all on its own, which just goes to show that people are wrong to think it was simple. The only consoling notion is that, to the experience itself, it really doesn’t matter whether or not you can express it in words. You feel it either way.

And all of that is great as long as you can dwell on personal exhilaration. If your emotional investment remains your own, there will never be a need to involve words in the first place. But sure enough, the day comes when you feel the uncompromising urge to share your feelings with their sole cause. How are you supposed to communicate that, though? Embracing her and never letting go for the rest of your carnal existence is not exactly an appropriate way to express this sort of thing. And you wish you could just dismiss the voice of mainstream behavioral reason here – just do what deep down somewhere you feel to be the right thing. Tacky? Yes, sure. Also honest, though; that ought to be worth something. But you are much too afraid of making a mistake, doing it wrong, all that. They say everybody makes mistakes, and that’s true. But this time you can’t afford any such thing.

So instead of cheesy gestures you should probably say something first. But again: it’s not simple – if at all possible – to express this sensation adequately. It’s not one thing or feeling, it’s some sort of collective entity that encompasses and exceeds the whole of your perception of the world. No matter what you are doing, you think of her. It’s like a pantheon of anecdotes, memories, and images spawned by every-day things. It’s like she is the inevitably omnipresent center of a concept you still can’t quite grasp. It’s as if your world, and everything about it, is repossessed by her. And you can hardly object. But you don’t know how to tell her that – you don’t think you could explain something you understand this little to anyone else.

Sometimes you just close your eyes and imagine a world where everything is difficult except this. You’d rather be able to tell her how you feel than have anything else you could ever want. It’s an absurd notion, sure. Like Romeo who wants to be with his Juliet, dead or alive. You can really only lose; but still, you’d rather have it that way – simply because it’s her. Maybe that’s why you close your eyes: all you see is her beautiful smile, her adorable way of making the world her own. It’s like a little, tacky fantasy. Something you are not supposed to experience in the so-called “real” world. You can’t tell her about it; she wouldn’t know what you were talking about – or at least that’s what you’re afraid of. But in dreams, these rules don’t apply and you can appreciate her the way the world should long have come to appreciate her. It’s less than she deserves and she is more than you deserve. But it’s a fantasy, after all. It’s what’s lingering at the fringes of the real – and you keep your eyes closed.

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