More Than You Know
Inspired by episode 7 of LOST
I close my eyes and it's dark there. Dark and moist and desperate.
I lean backwards and feel how my entire body comes to rest against fine, white sand, how my feet dig small holes in it and reach the cool layer underneath, how my fingers still fiddle with a leaf I picked up minutes before I sought this place out to have some time with the ocean and myself.
And him.
A call. My mobile twitched against my thigh. Somehow I knew who it was before I took the thing out of my pocket. People looked at me as I walked off the set; rehearsals are supposed to be free of mobiles and sets should certainly not be abandoned on a whim.
But I don't give a fuck. This is my future. And what do they know?
It was short. There was a waterfall of tears that scared me shitless, because, as a matter of course, he does not cry. He is the resolved, level-headed, carefree one. He sobbed through the entire call, making it hard for me at times to understand what he was trying to say.
We hung up and now I sit here and I stare at the Pacific. I do my best to convince myself that I really didn't understand what he was saying, but it is no use.
I know who you are and I know what you're looking for...
I try my hardest to stay with the script, to stay with the lines, to stay sane. I lock eyes with him, and hang onto him for dear life but feel control being torn away from me thread by thread, piece by piece, with each word, with each gesture. I suffocate, I gasp, and if I didn't know any better I'd say my eyes were bulging right out off their sockets.
'I am Dom Monaghan and I am looking for my love.'
I live here now. This beach is my job but also my home. I wake up here with a sense of direction, purpose, fullness, joy. My smiles have become real again here. My laughter sounds sincere and necessary. I came here thinking it might not last long enough to actually enjoy it, and so I did not commit, but this is my life now. This commitment.
I packed and went. Packed and went to watch the sea roll on and off the beach, to feel the breeze kiss my face once I open my door, to know my life has finally found the turn in the road it was looking for.
I packed and went and left him behind.
I said I wouldn't be gone forever. That it might not come through for me and that I wouldn't commit. That I love him and miss him and that I would return to him soon.
Only I didn't. I am still here, watching the ocean, feeling the breeze. I am still here, learning my lines, making new friends, fixing my place, building my life. I am still here and he is still there.
He, as a matter of course, does not cry. He is the easy-going, take-your-time, enjoy-it-while-it-lasts kind of guy. He is the stable one, the home-body, the one that kept grounding me when I was threatening to free-fall head first into most of LA's biggest traps. He's the steady, indulging, predictable one.
Or was, really, because he just left me.
Just hand it to me... You're going to run out... Give it up now, at least it will be your choice...
You're going to run out... I'm going to run out... I watch his eyes and try to forget about the excuses I made not to have to fly out there. The plastic is moist in the palm of my hand, the choice has already been made. I'm going to give it up, I'm going to hand it over. We lock eyes again and I know it is my line.
Don't talk to me like you know something about me.
But you do. You do.
You always knew and you gave me the time to figure it out for myself. To enjoy the ocean and the breeze and the friends and this new life. You gave me the time to commit and find my laughter and my sincerity. The sincerity to let us go. To let you go.
You waited, you always were the patient one. You waited and you watched. You watched for me to show the signs. The signs that would tell you I was going to hand it over, because we were running out. Signs that would tell you I was going to give us up.
'I can't give us up. I can't let us go. Instead I force you to make that choice.'
I sit up and squint in the sharp sunlight as soon as I open my eyes again. My face is wet, kissed by my tears instead of the breeze. I stand and turn and notice that I am watched from afar. She waves, no doubt concerned. I wave back, denying the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I start to walk. Walk towards her, them. Towards the set, the laughter, the commitment.
I imagine where you are right now. How you feel right now. Your eyes right now.
I know you're broken. Ripped. Torn apart shred by shred, piece by piece. I know you waited for me to call, to tell you I love you, to promise you I would come home. I know you waited for me to call and tell you about the house and the set and the laughter and the sincerity. I know you waited for me to tell you we had run out, that I had committed, that at least it should be my choice.
I close my eyes and I see yours. I see your anger, your anger and your pain. It should have been my choice. I should have been the honest one and tell you that I did commit to that beach. I should have flown out there and tell you face to face. But I didn't and I am haunted already by your sobs and your words. I didn't and I am haunted by your choice. By you making the choice.
By you having to make my choice.
Do you want your guitar? More than your drug?
The plastic is still moist in the palm of my hand knowing that the decision has been made. Again we lock eyes, and you try to reassure, confirm, soothe. I hand it over and shudder violently.
You let me go, you gave us up. You were sincere.
I already miss you. I miss our life. Our laughter. Our hopes and dreams, our commitment. I am maybe only ten paces away from the set, from them, my friends, my life. Ten paces too many, because I am without you. I am without you grounding me as I free-fall head first into another trap, right here on this beach.
I am without you. Without you.
More than you know.
Tell me what you think...
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