It's easy to picture the shocked look he had given me. She clung tightly to me, the soft curves of her form finding a perfect mirror in mine and voiding all space between. Her hot tears rolled down my neck and it seemed to me that it was the essence of sweet sticky life. Just like life, it cooled too quickly. So quickly, in fact, that it seemed a weekend away from her, even if it was spent on a hedonistic road-trip, was too much too bear. Such was her power over me. His shock was at the power I had over her.
I've just bought The Animatrix DVD. A more stellar viewing experience, I could not hope for. Wanting to squeeze every last drop of enjoyment out of it, I turned to the bonus_data from the main menu and sat back to enjoy a truly magnificent history of anime, from its advent in Japan through to its reception and then adoption in America. It also answered that question that has been asked of me by countless individuals that I've watched anime with. Why does everyone look white? Of course, they're really just referring to the large eyes that most characters have. It seems that back in the 40s and 50s, American animation was the most prominent example for other animators trying to get their start. Yet the true impetus for the larger-than-life eyes of anime is completely Japanese. The large liquid pools of life are the windows to the soul, and convey the largest amount of expression in a medium that has had to historically deal with rather meager funds. Notice that most evil characters have small and inexpressive eyes. I also thought it to be an interesting point that the Japanese are considered to have the largest eyes in the Asian community. Upon returning from an ESL job in Korea, my friend related to me the comments of some Koreans about this idea.
Lesa. That's right, I was talking about a woman. I had previously thought those eyes were unreal, a figment of fantasy and desire. The fact that I was wrong nearly destroyed me. It sounds trite, but she had the eyes of love. She could relate her entirety to you in a glance, if you knew what to look for. Even those souls passing like candles in the night were shaken by it. No one fell under that gaze without experiencing a sense of the divine in humanity.
She was the gnostic incarnation of Shiva, hellbent on showering the world with unbearable light.
You'll have to forgive me for falling in love with her, even if I can't forgive myself. This woman who would weep upon my words, who would quiver for lack of my presence. Give me the fate of the world in one hand, and the love of this woman in the other and I'd be damned for making the wrong decision each and every time. Such intensity doesn't allow for a healthy relationship. This is the co-dependent's song. I was her crystal and she was my heroin. We tasted each other salaciously till we lifted up and broke, smears of light spreading tattered shadows of our union across the memory of the universe.
Ours was not long for this world.
I left her with a song. A love song for no one is what I called it, but it was her story. The acrid smoke of the bar stung my eyes, but luckily my voice remained intact. My last exchange to her was given in anguished breath and intense voice, seeking only to match her eyes with the swell of a sound. The sweet and clear piercing high note at the end of the song was my goodbye to her, and I only needed her gaze from over the top of my guitar to know her, and to know that we were no more. We may cry lonely tears, but no more for each other.
I have always compulsively drawn eyes. I draw because it's an act of creation, and nothing else carries so much life as a monochromatic interplay of shadow and light. A simple graphite rendering can haunt you for the rest of your days. I could never have told you whose eyes I was trying to capture until I met her. It's a small, but comforting fact, that I can create a little piece of her, to cherish and revel in, just a little, when memories of her wander the halls of my heart. Today I tried writing instead.