Written by: l0rn
Title: Ockham's Razor
Genre: i wasn't really sure what "sweet angst" meant, and I'd never written an angst... so here's hoping. *cringe*
Rating: PG13 to R - not too much rough stuff - and no, there's no razors. Just medieval principles of thought.
Disclaimer: This never happened, I made it up, I'm a pervert and a deviant, etc.
Notes: Eternal love to frooit, without whom I would've misspelt countlles thngs, and may not have even had the courage to post it. I don't know when or where I wanted this to be set - all I knew was that I wanted a hemisphere where Christmas = winter, so hopefully all the meteorology matches up. Also, I wrote it to where you don't have to know what Ockham's Razor is to enjoy the story, but it enhances it. So I hope you like it. It's around 1200 words altogether.
Merry Christmas, love!
“Pluralitas non est ponenda sine necessitate.”
Translated: “Entities should not be multiplied unnecessarily.” Or, "If the way a system works can be explained without a certain component, that component likely does not exist in that system."
- a principle set forth by William of Ockham, also known as Ockham’s Razor.
Loneliness is blue walls and white ceiling and fan blades endlessly turning.
Phones don’t ring.
The open windows only let in the sounds, the smells, the cold winds of the ocean. They do nothing to calm my aching heart.
I don’t think I’ve moved from this bed in days.
It keeps happening in my head. The tragic moment replays itself, and each time I’ll imagine I’ve said something different, and then he would’ve said something different, and then we’d smile, or nod, and everything would have worked itself out and be right again.
At one point, I thought of drinking, and then realized it wouldn’t help. As if it would erase my memories of him.
I don’t know how, or when, I’m going to be able to face him again. Who’s going to break the silence for a few cd’s?
Sometimes I find myself, half-asleep or just awakening from a dream where we’re still winking, still speaking, still smiling. Still making love.
Sometimes I awake to find my hand already at my crotch and I’m almost there. God, Orlando.
Loneliness is masturbation.
Loneliness is the yellow light from the sunset on the ocean when you wake up and realize it’s four o’clock and you’ve been sleeping all day, and then remembering why.
And it doesn’t work to just go on as nothing happened, not when you’ve so entangled yourself with one person, not when you can still see him searching through the fridge for something that isn’t expired, not when you can still see that selfsame sunlight throwing his cheekbones into stark relief.
Not when you can still smell him on your sheets.
Was I just not what he wanted? Was I really such a bumbling idiot? A fool? I was a fool to think that I could just tell him I loved him and expect him to say the same thing just because we’d fucked.
Maybe it’s for the best. I should just... go out. Or something.
Sometimes I awake to find I’ve been crying.
I feel like someone else is inhabiting my skin and I’m just watching the whole thing played out on an old projection screen in a shitty, run-down cinema. I’m the guy in the audience that heckles the characters on the screen.
The movies I have don’t help, don’t distract, because I still remember watching them with him. Snuggling. Laughing. Boos for the hero and whistles for the bad guy.
He’s everywhere. I know I could run away, could get out of the apartment, but I’d always have to come back.
Loneliness is waking up in a fog, cooking two omelets, and then remembering.
At one point, I remember wanting to wander into a church just to feel the old sinner’s sting of childhood when you know you’ve done something terribly wrong, but the stained glass and the candles and the chants make it all seem a little better.
Maybe I should just... go out. Or something.
Loneliness is a room full of people offering conversations only to themselves.
Loneliness is the blaring music and the bottom of the glass.
I keep wondering if I said the right thing when I know I didn’t. I keep reliving it, saying the same stupid thing I’d said before. What was I thinking? That I’d sound smarter if I used a medieval theory to explain my point?
I keep seeing the look on Dom’s face, the silent pain I know I was going to cause. Keep getting that same ache settling into my own body. Keep seeing the unmade bed and still being able to smell him, feel his specific energy signature on his side of the bed.
I’ve been sleeping on the couch.
A cheesy ballad on the club speakers brings me back to the bar, the empty glass, the bartender giving me the universal glance for “Another?” The shitty music reminds me how discriminating Dom was of his own music, reminds me of the cd’s still at my house. I nod to the bartender, giving the universal hand gesture for “Double.”
I guess that it’s not a great idea to tell a guy who doesn’t like commitment that you love him. I still don’t know why I freaked out about that. Having a critical accident that no one said you’d recover from makes you want to swallow life whole when you prove them wrong. And you can’t do that with someone always calling, asking when you’ll be home.
So why do I feel like I’m wasting my life without him?
They say that just because you feel it doesn’t mean it’s there, doesn’t make it real. But then what is it you’re feeling? It has to at least be a product of your own neuroses. Doesn’t love originate in the mind?
And as much as I try to deny it, I did feel something for him. As much as I try to talk myself out of it, it was love, however you define it.
The bartender looks at me and I’m so drunk I can’t really understand his universal signals anymore, except that one where he shakes his head when I hold up two fingers.
I don’t think I’ll leave just yet.
How many days has it been?
I lock the door to my flat and head out, walking briskly in the cold night air. Christmas decorations are everywhere, but I don’t feel it.
I pick a bar where neither of us went together. It’s a bit dodgy, and when I come in, I hear some drunk yelling at the bartender, begging for more liquor. I don’t really care. I’m too fucking numb.
There’s some shitty ballad playing. I stop a waitress and ask for an amaretto on the rocks. I don’t want to get too plastered.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the bouncers throwing someone out like old rubbish. He looks familiar, but the waitress comes with my drink and I forget.
When I finish, I ask for another. I don’t want to leave just yet.
Loneliness is the bottom of the glass.
Sometimes I awake thinking I’m in his flat again, and then I realize it was just a dream.
But this time I am.
And I’m in one of his shirts, and I smell coffee, and I struggle to remember the night before.
The fog starts to clear, and I recall being very drunk, and maybe even thrown out. I remember looking up (from the sidewalk?) into the snowflakes. I remember being helped up…
Dom’s silhouette appears in the doorway, the sun creating a halo of his hair, and I remember that, isn’t it Christmas eve or day or something?
“I found you last night. I’m sorry I brought you back here, but I was worried about you.” He pauses.
“You can leave anytime you like.”
“Never attribute to malice that which can be adequately explained by stupidity.”