* * *

Hiding inside, masked by the shadows of your former self.
Someone loved you once; who’s to say you’ll be loved again?
If only it was a simple progression. No ups and downs,
Just straight lines and answers; why cycles, smiles, frowns?
People like to splash money, like the sky drops rain:
Affection is a currency: now I’m all out of wealth.

Don’t you know this situation will always repeat?
There’s always love at first sight,
But what about things too good to be true?
These feelings are ancient but feel fresh and anew:
Something inside you, always thinking there might
Be a chance: but should I succumb to defeat?

Do you know how happy you made me?
I was weak and distraught; in short a mess.
Revitalisation you did spread –
That’s why I’m clinging on to what was said.
More alone than I knew, no chance to caress –
It might be over now but I’m glad we came to be.

Now I’m thinking, what does he have that I don’t?
Heritage and culture, I believe that’s a reason.
He’s older than me, though I’ve age beyond my years;
I never forget what passes by my ears.
The way I felt, it defined the season…
Dreams I wish would exist, when they simply won’t.

That was true until you made your impression
On me. So precious; I’ve found my muse.
Your eyes are blue, just like my own:
A search for someone like you is all I’ve ever known.
Now that I’ve found you, I feel love’s confidence infuse
And instill quiet awe in me; this is my confession.

No doubt there’s trouble ahead; there always is.
Competition, where another thinks you’re his.
You’re the world’s, unique, sweet and sublime:
My years of life and wisdom, leading to a dramatic time…
For I’ll never give up; you’re worth defending –
I’ll do whatever it takes for our happy ending.

When we listen to music, we listen to mp3s. Often on our iPods. When we search the web, we very well might be using our iMacs or our MacBooks. We read magazines on our iPads. When we make a call, we might very likely be tapping the little green phone icon on our iPhones. I know that since I woke up today, I have used most of these things: I’m writing this article in Word for Mac.

Wherever you go, you are bound to see a luminescent apple somewhere. Whether at your next gig, in your next lecture, when you browse the web or when you tune in to watch the latest episode House, MD., you’re going to be greeted by that familiar logo.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Apple is not the only technology company that has had a huge impact on the way we live our day-to-day lives. To ignore Microsoft, Sony, Samsung, etc. would be foolish. That being said, it is almost universally acknowledged that there’s something different about Apple and its products. And it is widely acknowledged that that is due to the late Steve Jobs, founder of both Apple and Pixar, famous for his ‘casual uniform’ of black turtleneck, Levi 501s and Nike trainers: what he lacked in his own fashion is more than made up for in the attention to detail – near perfection – of Apple products. And it’s this attention to detail, this effort, and this philosophy that the world is now missing.

Just like the Apple logo has a bite out of it, the world is now missing a sizeable piece of its creative heart.

To quickly defend myself against claims of being a slave to a brand, I need quote only the brilliant President Obama: ‘Steve was among the greatest of American innovators – brave enough to think differently, bold enough to believe he could change the world, and talented enough to do it’.

It’s stirring stuff.

Whilst the more feeble minds of the internet have already begun churning out poor jokes at his expense, I have been thinking about this topic intensely since the moment I found out. Obviously, I have never met the man and have nothing to say about the claims that he was, at times, a ruthless businessman and not always easy to get along with (what great mind is?), but I definitely count myself among those inspired by what he did: a man who had the confidence to think that he could ‘change the world’ and actually pulled it off.

One man really can change the world.

Steve Jobs gave himself a salary of $1 a year: financial gain was never his aim. Quotes like this sum up this philosophy-creator: ‘remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose’. There are dozens more like this. All worth looking up online.

‘The world has lost a visionary,’ as Obama said. How was he a visionary? Because unlike many businesses (Microsoft is a prime example), Steve Jobs didn’t want his company to make products that just did what they were supposed to. He wanted his company to make products that worked well – but not just well, exceptionally well. Not only should they work intuitively; they should look aesthetically pleasing, both inside and out. To this day, I have never heard someone criticise the look of a MacBook Pro: it may well be the best looking piece of technology ever created. This is to say nothing of the way the iPod and the iPhone revolutionised the way we listen to music and contact one another.

Everyone knows that Apple are meticulous in their design and their work ethic. But the other thing that I think sums up the brand is their minimalism. If you visit the Apple website, you will be greeted by a site that has swathes of white text and the familiar black font. Every single page on that website – just like all of their products – are scrupulously checked and double checked to make sure they fit in with the philosophy of Apple. You just don’t find that sort of effort anywhere else in the world on a large scale.  There’s never any waste with Apple.

Just why did so many millions of people swarm to Apple stores all over the world to leave vigils? Why do so many people queue up for days to get the latest Apple products? Why am I writing this article? There are many reasons: functional, aesthetic and philosophical.

All I know is, whilst we may have lost the man who brought us the most iconic creations of the twenty first century, and whilst Apple may face a somewhat uncertain future, Steve Jobs left us one last gift:

The knowledge that ‘the ones who are crazy enough to think they can change the world are the ones who do’.

 Steve Jobs
1955 – 2011

In fact, it’s not about the actions themselves. It never has been. There’s something else that runs in the blood – the actions are the end result of a long and complicated chain series of events – it’s what’s in the blood that matters. What’s in the blood? Passion. Energy: resolution: drive: attitude: talent: intuition. The only difference between two men of equal height, of equal weight and equal looks is their psychological disposition. And this is not something that can be worked on, tampered with or reduced – this is the man.

Some call it the ‘soul’, but it’s all the same thing: the same thought that greets them in the morning when they awaken and the same thing that soothes or stimulates them before they sleep. A man’s passion is the same thing that takes his moments of happiness to the heights of ecstasy and with exactly the same intensity turns momentary sadness into the dark recesses of depression, of oblivion. It works in these two ways, and in every other one of the infinitesimal directions a man can go in: it allows a man to work as hard as it allows him to embrace hedonism. It allows him to love with as much passion as he hates, and it either resides in indifference most of the time (which is the majority of humanity – for this is perhaps the only way society could function) or, in certain passionate creatures, it drives them to despair, madness, fury and to heaven… and for these beings life is lived one day at a time, for the intensity of existence is quite something – by turns draining them and at others making them want to drink in life faster than it can be procured. These creatures could die at any given time and still be said ‘to have lived’ – much more than most.

The truly passionate man speaks in the language of the eyes: a piercing glance can shoot a dagger through another and make them question their life – all without a word. A gaze can criticise or compliment. They speak in the language of the sensual, the speechless, the philosophical. This world is never enough: all possible worlds are more important than this one. It’s not about what has been, it’s about what could be – even if it doesn’t happen. The passionate man lives in the present – this is his gift and his curse. Most revel in their fondest memories or hope wistfully for what’s in the future, but the passionate man know that each second is the past, the present and the future all at once: only when this is realised can life be lived as if it was a trail of explosive – a flame racing along a fuse.

These passionate beings barely know of their impact – it takes constant reminders from the kindest and most noble of souls to stay by their side and tie them down to the earth so that they don’t float away – because they would, if they had no other ties to the rest of humanity. All they are aware of is the pure intensity of their existence: colours are always vivid, the darkness is always oblivion; the quiet is always inspirational and they are never at half-speed: always one or the other. Contemplative or unstoppable.

The emotional spectrum is a palette with which they paint their life: each emotion has its space, its time and its place. People often say ‘life is short’, but it is not: it is exactly the right length. Mortality lurks in the background: at times it is horrifying, terrifying – and at others it is as the sun: finite and quite necessary for life: inspirational. Any man who claims to want to live forever is a liar, or a fool – it is precisely the fact that we are aware of our own death that life is as beautiful as it is. All moments of sorrow are cured with the cathartic knowledge that one day – sooner or later – sorrow won’t even be an option, for existence will come to nil and consciousness will stop. Sorrow is intensity: sorrow is beautiful: sorrow is to be alive, and thus sorrow is ecstasy.

To define a person by one confused characteristic is to miss all of this: to describe a man in terms of his intensity is a far greatest measure of his true essence.  His passion is the factor behind all of his characteristics. It defines the way he loves, the way he hates, the way he works, the way he rests, the way he dreams, the way he fails and succeeds, the way he overcomes adversity and the way he acts when he is triumphant – whether he seeks more, or rests on his laurels. It is the way he embraces or fears life – and the same of his death. It defines how he is remembered; it defines all he could have been, and the way in which he leaves his mark on the world.

The most obvious factors that intensity influences are love and hate. And it is often by these that people mistakenly define a man, clinging to only one or the other – they fail to notice that the two are proportionately linked and present in all men.

Most men will love with what they think is unutterable intensity: and perhaps they do. Certainly, they do to the extent that they are capable. I have no doubt that most – if not all – love with all of their being. When they cry, they are pouring forth all of the sorrow, anguish, anxiety and emotion they are capable of: they cry like a mortal who knows that they can only love a very small, finite number of people, and they cry as if the world was watching. But this is not to say that all loves – or lovers — are equal. This is significant: because these people (most people) hate with as much intensity as they love. On reflection, they might think ‘I am not a very hateful person. I get annoyed, and I have my off days’ – and they are right. They are not very hateful – they do not burn with utter disdain; it is temperate and, if not sensible, it is not overwhelming. Of course, at times, they will burn with hate – but this is not often. But this is directly related to the way they love: if they do not hate very much, in contrast to those who do hate very much, they also do not love very much.

But a word on ‘the fine line between love and hate’. What about those souls who seem full of nothing but hatred? I say that they both love and hate, even when all that appears is malice and apathy: their hate is a product of their spurned love. Their love that their parents spurned, their love of life, their love of the self – completely inverted. Love and hate are the same emotion folded back on itself. That their behaviour shows only hate only proves that, given the right circumstances, they could have been a sensitive and equally passionate being – but it may simply be the case that the right circumstances may never have been possible: this does not change the fact that they were capable of it. Hate is the absence of fulfilled love; it is the emotion that results from a vacuum where an object to love could be, but isn’t.

But this is the rare case, the man who appears to be purely hateful: there is another category (equally rare) who fall neither under the first category which most men do, nor are they (apparently) the slave of one emotion: these are the truly passionate men, who feels the conflict of life and enjoy its spoils each and every day. They love with inimitable intensity, and they hate with the same energetic passion. Their hate, however, stems from an utter dissatisfaction: they are able to see the true nature of things. Even in the man they hate, they see their potential and wish for it to be so – it is because of this that they feel such hate. They hate the way things have turned out, and they hate that humanity does not live up to its ideals. It is because of this intensity that they love few – for very few are able to live up to their potential, or are lucky enough to be truly beneficent or brilliant – and are sceptical of most. This is why value terms are unhelpful: is the passionate man good for loving with such intensity, or a menace for casting such a harsh eye on so many? There can be no place for these terms.

But though we know these people exist – in theory – it is still the case that others define them by either their outward visage of love or hate. This is an unfortunate error: it is clearly a case of only half of the picture being visible. The man who storms when he walks, who quivers with passion in his speech, who looks as if he commands death with his gaze has an exact reflection of himself that is unseen by most – if not all. The public persona, the man in the daylight, the outgoing, the profane, the social, the bludgeoning aspect of his manner has an exact inversion: the isolated existence of the human being in the night time; introverted, the ambient, thoughtful, philosophical: the calm.

The violent has its impact in the brutality with which it pierces the tranquil: the two are mirrors of one another. It is far too easy to throw descriptions away in the course of conversation, with more or less lucidity and to forget the issue, having labelled it. It may, of course, be true that ‘he is very critical’: but this is only half of the picture. Whoever has labelled him thus has forgotten to add that ‘he loves with as much passion as he criticises’. This is the fatal error. Whatever is true of one part of his life is equally true of another.

The stoic is cautious and reserves his emotion: he does not dislike many. He tolerates many and likes as many as he dislikes. Those he does like appreciate him and would hate to live without him, but they understand his limits and what he is capable of – some of the most stable, helpful and beautiful people fall under this category. He is restrained and he is aware – or perhaps he is simply insensitive to all that life is capable of offering – perhaps he does not want to embrace his passionate side: perhaps this is a valuable thing for him to do. It is this sort of person who can, perhaps, add, or change, his character: he can expand his horizons, and through the fragile and dangerous building of trust with others, he can begin to taste the fruit of life – if and when he allows his passion to seep out.

The passionate man is afire and ablaze: he dislikes, or is sceptical about, most. His passion defines his relationships: those he likes, he loves: he clutches them to his chest and would die for them – he would come to their aid no matter what, and feels pangs of terror when they are in trouble; he rejoices in their happiness. He shares all that he has with them, and often speaks all that is on his mind, entering into a trance, only realising what he has said minutes after he has awakened from his trance having revealed all that was weighing upon him. He speaks too quickly, when he begins – he inundates, his floods, he bursts his limits – he cannot be contained. At risk of drowning others, he can only secure and support a very limited amount of others with him: the rest are at risk from his torrents of passion – but those he does take with him – those who he cherishes, adores and protects – have the best of both worlds… for the passionate man is as dangerous when he is depressed as he is inspirational when he is healthy. The passionate man is the ideal, and the impossible – he is all that man could be, but simultaneously is contradictory to maintain. He is the romantic: the candle lit at both ends. For him, pleasure is ecstasy and pain is torment: love is his ecstasy, and his self-acknowledged hatred is painful to all, especially himself – there is nothing in-between: only passion, intensity, and drive. But how – or why — do I say all of this, you ask?

Because, for better or worse, I am such a one…

Inside sits my brain, wherein lies my mind.
It can feel, it can plan — and it can hurt.
Take a look inside, it’s so unique. You may just find
A complex network, of neurones — from where I blurt

The truth: my biceps curl to lift my wrists –
My forearms tense, now I’ve prepared fists.
These are my eyes; from where I see all:
Civilisation growing, evil breeding — only to fall

By a select few. Those of us who are aware.
Take a further glance, through celebrity and fame –
The ground you walk on; nature. Just because I care
About extinction, doesn’t mean I won’t forget to blame

Him. Man. The machine whose lethal force
Is incredible, even if he doesn’t know its course.
These are my quadriceps, which walk through strife:
For I am a man, a machine, protector and destroyer of life.

However, I am not one of these men. I am simply a young man, who was excessively lucky and threw it all away. Now I live with existential demons so fierce, I fear my time alone, for I must duel with them just to fall asleep. This is because I do not feel that I deserve sleep. Rest should be earned; it should be a ticket you gain every day for surviving twenty-four hours of the events which surround every one of us, as we all move towards the day when the bell will toll for good.

I am a petty insomniac who swings between striving for self-confidence, and throwing myself into the jaws nature, to be preyed on all sorts of hungry beasts, all within the same day. Let me take you back to where this all began, and how it is that I ended up in this situation, so that you may avoid my mistakes as best you can.

My name, my name is not important: consider me a fragment of your imagination, as you read this, building up a picture of my complexity and my fallacies, my traits both positive and negative. For a physical model, consider me of average height, of standard looks, Caucasian, short brown hair – some look right through me; others do notice me, as per their taste. My personality is for you to judge, as I consider this my trial, and my punishment will be dealt (as it has been throughout this retelling)… I wish solely to be known as the Unforgiven.

* * *

With the breaking of dawn, the sun crept across the sky like the smile on my face. I looked to the left of me and I saw the most beautiful thing I can ever recall seeing. To wake up with your lover – my life’s love, the one I truly cherish and do to this day– is there a more satisfying event? No matter what happens from then on, you have spent time with someone you would sacrifice yourself for.

Not being alone is one thing; knowing that you are with someone who is just the right balance of humanity is another; agreeing on certain views, disagreeing on others, like a fruit whose texture and taste is complex yet addictive, and of course, healthy.

I placed a kiss on her forehead and she stirred slightly, and all I could do was look at her and smile, without a care in the world outside of that room, that bed. There is a dualism that can be sourced here; with such perfection in one’s life it is easy to be satisfied and to relax forever, and in another reflection it is desirable to continue and strive to conquer the world, in whatever respect you can, knowing that your deepest want is fulfilled in this person.

For some, this increased desire is to help others, to cure their ills, to make their day. This was hers. Not only was she the beholder of a physical beauty the likes of which is desired all over the world, her mind was just as striking. I do not believe there is a malicious intention that has once passed her lips. Her sweet giver of passion: she awoke and we kissed, and I ran my fingers through her hair. She yawned as she stretched, her body preparing for the day ahead. I laid silently next to her, still smiling.

As I asked her how she was, and we eased each other into waking hours, I could feel myself warming up, emotionally. I was like a engine filled with the fuel, her kisses, her touch, her presence, her reciprocated love.

This, this truly is where I am most happy. If only I was as simple as I have so far written, then this dénouement would not be in front of your eyes. No; for I am a combustion engine, and at this stage I truly was producing the smog that only I could survive. Carbon monoxide poured from me, slowly at first, so subtle that no one knew – it even made them dizzy, euphoric. Little did she know I was poisoning her.

As we wrote history that morning – as we all do, at all times “present” – I could feel myself being pinched from inside. There was a reverberation within my happiness; I’ll try to explain it as best as I can. Every smile was only half a smile: within it there was a grimace, a shudder of pain every time I kissed her.

Please, do not misinterpret this: I was in pain not because I did not love her, but because I did love her! The idea of rating people as a whole is, in theory, something which should be dismissed. How could you possibly judge an entire person’s character? You simply can’t; or at least you should not be able to. Consider the dictators I mentioned previously: unarguably, they are remorseless killers. Though what about the people they loved? Did their pets love them, did their children, their wives? To them, ignoring all ideologies, they are still loved, cherished, thought about. Even these undoubtedly flawed humans had a side to them which is loveable.

So why did I feel a shiver of pain run through my body when I kissed my lover? Simply, because she was too good for me. Too perfect. Too close to something that humans shouldn’t be; not a flaw about her. Truly, it intensified the idea that I was going to die one day: I wouldn’t be able to be with her forever. One day I would have to let her go.

Now prepare to judge the mistakes of the human mind: how did I deal with this knowledge that I adored her above all other things in the universe? Let the unthinkably frantic emotion of love take over here.

I treated her like I wanted to treat myself. Where I wanted to berate myself for my stupid ways, for not living up to her impeccable standards, I would irritate her. I would find flaws in my own psyche and pretend they were hers. I was jealous of myself, when I thought I could stand with her on the same platform as just a human. That time had long since passed: I would chastise her and flare up at the smallest disagreement, where before I would have understood her view point completely, and secretly envied her logical and precise way of thinking.

More and more, I began to push her away, wedging my own insecurities between her and me, and I disguised them as her flaws. She, being so humble, so understanding and so compassionate, she believed my fabrications. She genuinely believed I was annoyed at her, when really I loved her so much that I was violently ripping my insides apart. My thought processes had become disfigured and monstrous; the more I tried to mistakenly convince her of her flaws, the more she believed me, the more vile I was becoming – and of course, the worse I treated her.

The very epitome of a vicious cycle. To top things off, she seemed to escalate in her righteousness, her perfection: she would not end it with me. I was treating her like I might retaliate to someone who had insulted me. Instead, I was becoming the worst thing I could possibly imagine; literally acting the opposite way I wanted to. I was drawn to speaking to her every day, only to face the realisation that we were diverging paths: she was becoming far, far too perfect for me, and I was becoming such a villain that I deserved to be alone.

I would never want you to think I’m wallowing: I am coming to terms with my own actions, and I criticise them as I would someone who needed to hear it. This is why I’ll never be anything other than the Unforgiven.

* * *

Here, bullets whistle past my head, inches from ending my life. Behind me are my comrades. We fight as a unit. We keep low to the ground, with our heavy rucksacks on our backs weighing us down, sprinting towards the trenches just fifty metres ahead.

Then, the whistling stopped. I hit the psychological and physiological wall and my body collapsed… I stumbled to the ground, and where I fell onto my torso, another round of bullets found their way into the space I had occupied just milliseconds before. Unfortunately, as a comrade of mine attempted to help me up, these rounds burrowed their way into his chest.

With what little breath I had left, I began to crawl towards the trench that was a beacon of life just ahead. But did I really want life? What was left for me? All I was now was a soldier. I had nothing to return to, I had done what I thought was the right thing to do, and left my love.

All I could picture now, as blood and mud sprayed around me, was her. Such soft skin, as picturesque as could be imagined; her red lips screaming to be kissed, her luscious brunette hair falling past her shoulders, every subtle freckle on her face making up everything I loved about existing. Her sublime form, her arms outstretched, ready to embrace me. Exquisite fashion sense, the likes of which I could never hope to match (in fact, my simple green camouflage suited me) accentuating every millimetre of her body; how could everything be so perfect?

As I thought these things, I realised this was my life flashing before my eyes. Without knowing it, I had risen to one knee, and a bullet had pierced my abdomen. I was bleeding, but not severely yet: thus, I knew it was time.

I could never return to my love, and she would never take me back. I had never been good enough for her and I wasn’t now. What I could do was protect her, fight for the Queen and country she resided in. As I looked across the trenches I could see machine guns lined up and approaching enemy; smatterings of German was all I could hear; “Heil Hitler”, I heard, and I realised that these men had entered a frame of mind that was impossible to visit unless you were willing to risk your life for an ideology, for the people you love.

I respected these men who had killed my friends and shot me, in the respect that they had exceptionally strong will: however, they were fighting for the wrong side. I knew that fighting for a country is a trap; if you are born somewhere and it happens to be the wrong side and you are drafted, what can you do?

These men were, in all honesty, firing bullets at my country and at my love. This, this is when I realised that I could never be forgiven. This was a noble suicide. I would not let these men advance any further towards our trench. Reinforcements were twenty minutes behind my unit, and I knew that I had no reason to live any longer than those twenty minutes.

With these final thoughts, I stood to my feet, staggered as I adjusted to the newly-formed hole in my stomach, and I raised my gun. I sprayed bullets every which way, left and right, moving from different targets, changing position as best as I could, absorbing bullets all the mean while.

I was satisfied. Not because I was murdering life, but because I was fighting for my love; I was no longer capable of treating her right, nor myself; so all I could do was do my best to hold off these advancing Nazis, tooth and nail. If they were prepared to give their life, I was jumping at the chance – but only after I had stopped them all. This was to be my final act.

In the silence of eternity, of death, being forgiven did not matter. She would never know what happened to me, how I died, what I thought whilst I received the final metal jacket to the skull. All I know is that I laid down my life for her; that’s what she deserved.

Though I can never be forgiven, I know that my tormented mind and body combined passion with skill, emotion with logic, patriotism with love. This is the recurring tale of the Unforgiven.

White lies reveal human compassion
Sparsely, though — we all most ration –
Else we lose the knowledge we have gained
Drowning in what mystery remains.

Beginning, middle and an ending
All live with certain death impending –
And still: the laughter never ceases
Even when lives lie in pieces.

What is joy, without a little grief? –
And what is faith without unbelief?
What on earth would be the point in bliss
Without an ending to all of this?