touched

    Heero is absolutely fucking crazy. Any amount of sanity he may have ever possessed was long since shredded and thrown to the wind. The doctors killed it. The war killed it. Heero killed it. I don’t know if he meant to, but he did. Now all that’s left is this totally insane, yet totally reasonable, wreck of a little boy. A little boy that used to be the owner of the most beautiful, happy, perfectly innocent eyes that could ever be imagined.

you say that i am too

    I found a vidclip that Dr. J had stored somewhere. I think it must be his first meeting with Heero- back before Heero was given that name and the bloodshed that went with it. The good doctor must have been taping to catch the boy’s personality for later study. His personality was captured, all right. It seems impossible that this child with something comparable to the Light of God shining from his eyes- in the purely aesthetic sense, of course- could be Heero Yuy. But then, this child isn’t Heero Yuy in any sense at all. I don’t know this little boy’s real name, but I know him. It’s all there, for everyone to see.

    In the vidclip, the boy with wild hair and even wilder eyes radiates the sort of innocence and exuberance and peace that only happy children can give off. This is no homicidal maniac- his smiles are real without threat of violence and pain and horrible, horrible death. This child is alive. This child is wild, but he is sane. When I compare him to the wreck now known as Heero Yuy, I wish I could go back and pick him up and take him away from there. I’d kill those doctors to keep them from destroying this precious child and any other innocents-- only more lives on my hands to save Heero and the others their pain.

    Once, I showed the pseudo-memory to Heero and tried to explain how it made me feel. He got angry. I got angry. I told him he was totally out of control, that he needed help. He just stopped and gave me this look I couldn’t understand.

    “I’m crazy,” a statement that was more a question.

    “Hell, yes, Heero- you’re messed up in the head, dammit, and it……worries me.” I could never say it scared me to death, whatever sense that makes. But it did. Lord help me, it did.

    “Look.”

   He had opened a vidclip of his own. There was no mistaking the dark laughter. There was only one person whose very voice, whose very laughter- a twisted form of expressing mirth- could express so much anger and pain and death. Mine.

    On screen, I sent man after man to the eternal infinite. While I laughed that hideous laugh, those men went to find the answers I didn’t know. While my proverbial hands filled with blood, these men achieved the peace I knew I wanted--right then at the moment their life was snuffed out,--more than any other time……..

    I turned away.

    Heero made his point, and made it well.

so much

of what you say is true

    Heero is an analytical psychopath. He may be crazy, but he’s almost always right. At least when he makes a definite factual statement. So of course, he was painfully correct when it comes to my sanity. Perhaps it was inherited. Maybe it was living on the streets. Then again, maybe it has to do with losing almost every single damn thing that ever meant anything. Except Heero, quite possibly the main decay of my sanity. Heero- my everything. Heero- my nothing. Heero- my redeeming sin, my damning grace. The meaning of life and the reason for death reside within him, and he knows it, and he’s too fucked up to give a damn. His eyes declare that he would never tell. I started a poem once about those hideous eyes that defy everything-- one of my more sane sounding ones. He found it and read it aloud in his expressive monotone.

    Under the soul-numbing gaze, I realized it was more about me than it ever was about him. I think I wrote it in front of a mirror. All I could do was laugh when he was finished and the memory resurfaced. He ripped it once- just so; perfectly.

    Boys do cry.(1) I lie. But both happen when there is nothing to bear them witness.

i’ll never find someone

quite like you

again

    Fate. Coincidence. Destiny. The big wheel in the sky. God’s plan. All shit. I never understood how someone could claim to believe in one but not another. They’re all the same, how can people not see that? To label one thing fate and another coincidence always struck me as incredibly stupid. There is no way of specifying, no way of knowing. There’s either some greater power up there holding the strings or we’re the ones fucking our own lives up. Or maybe it’s back to the game of odds. Probability of dependent events A and B is P(A and B)= P(A) x P(B after A). Zero. Heero. E=M C squared. Heero, “He said: this universe is very clever, The scientists have laid it out on paper, Each atom goes on working out its law, and never Can cut an unintentioned caper.” Heero. “He said: it is a geometric net And in the middle, like a syphilitic spider, The Absolute sits waiting , till we get All tangled up and end ourselves inside her.”[2]

    Whatever it is, I prefer to leave it unidentified. I met Heero, for and despite whatever purpose or bent. The pilot of 01. The only one.

“Throw your arms around me- Aint you glad you found me”

(1)    “Boys do cry”- I know that I might be getting a little fragmented in my writing, but that is the effect I’m going for. This line refers to Duo’s statement “Boys don’t cry,” in an episode that I forget. He’s crying in the last two lines of the poem, not when he says it. I confuse myself.

[2]     “Probability of dependent events A and B is P(A and B)= P(A) x P(B after A). Zero. Heero. E=M C squared. Heero, “He said: this universe is very clever, The scientists have laid it out on paper, Each atom goes on working out its law, and never Can cut an unintentioned caper.” Heero. “He said: it is a geometric net And in the middle, like a syphilitic spider, The Absolute sits waiting , till we get All tangled up and end ourselves inside her.” – Believe it or not, there is a complete thought and logic in there. But it’s beautifully fragmented. Much like the way I speak sometimes. Think like Pong. Wonderful excerpts are from a poem with no title by T.S. Eliot, and the following “Throw your arms around me- Aint you glad you found me” is from another non titled poem by the same, actually taken from a song. Aa, I love that man.