Nothing In-between (short story)
By Luke Labern
They have it wrong. Those people who define a person by just one characteristic don’t know anything at all. ‘He’s evil’; ‘she’s nice’; ‘he’s a bore’ – wrong. All wrong. Fluctuation, variation, contradiction – that is what defines a man. I can think of nothing more human than to follow the greatest mistake of your life with an utterly sublime action. It doesn’t make up for it – it’s not a game of making up – it’s just the way things are. The best men are also capable of being the worst. The worst are loved just like the best. Everyone in-between might have a higher frequency of poor or excellent action, but no one exclusively resides in one sphere. If you tell me you’ve found the greatest man to have ever lived, and that he can do no wrong – I’ll tell you to wake up.
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…
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…
A Short Story,
Published 16 February 2012
Published 16 February 2012