The Great Attraction (short story)
By Luke Labern
Mystery is the great attraction.
People love nothing more than to understand and to take pleasure in spreading knowledge – and in the retelling, to massage their ego. Consequently, in cracking the unknown, there are two main approaches: to become frustrated and to ignore the mystery (or accept that one is incapable of comprehending it) or to redouble one’s efforts and make it one’s personal mission to understand. Knowledge attains the position of victory.
I never would have described myself as ‘mysterious’: I gained that label from others – a particular group of people who are close to me, intrigued by me, but are not so close to as to pierce into the consciousness behind the supposed ‘mystery’. For various reasons, those who are not close to me take less interested in me and/or regard me with contempt – a mutual relationship. Of course, the persona of mystery means people want to ‘crack’ you. They want to be the first person to do so, to really crack you. Like discovering a new element on the periodic table, they want to uncover your true nature. As I said, mysteriousness adds much attractiveness: even at your least confident, at your most dejected, people are still intrigued. Why are you depressed? What profound worries burden you? In many ways this can help alleviate the melancholy: people showing interest – care – can help lift all but the darkest of clouds.
The problem is that the reverse is true: when you are at your most comfortable; happy – the simplest, most straightforward emotion — that is when the mystery gets in the way. It becomes a burden in itself. Mystery, to me, is black. Dark. A semantic smog which hides your white-hot ambitions, intentions and feelings. It becomes a barrier between you and the rest of the world. Within: clarity. To the outside: obfuscation. Mystery.
This is the truth: every part of my thinking, I understand. There is a complete system within: beliefs underpin others; my interconnecting psychological pipelines are all in order. Clarity and precision are my great allies – and yet the world experiences me – outwardly – as blighted by wisps and shadows.
At the intersection between the internal and the external is where I am lost in translation: misunderstood, isolated – labelled. Described as a mystery.
Despite this, many claim to ‘know’ me. In a sense, that is true: each particular group understands one aspect of me – one of my many faces. But by turns, they are completely wrong about other – equally important – aspects of my nature – and to know only one part of what I stand for, without the whole, is to misunderstand. No wonder they call me mysterious: the parts are not mutually self-supporting. And there are many paradoxes within, inverting particular beliefs and complicating matters. But complexity and mystery are two very different concepts. I admit that I am complicated – but I maintain that I only appear mysterious because no one person can access every part of my thinking.
It is absurd in itself: to think that anyone could ever ‘know’ anyone – or would even want to, given the multiplicity of feelings and opinions we have about a single topic, with all of our frailties and contradictions. It is as absurd as the feeling we have that life has a meaning.
But just as we must continue to live with this absurdity in the back of our minds with regards to a transcendent meaning to life, so too we must pretend that we ‘know’ people; that we ever could, or would want to. And amidst these philosophical sinking sands of truth, we must build constructs: we must assess what we truly want, who we truly are and what (or who) we want to be. When the great equaliser has its way, we will be exactly that: equal; so it is in this transient window of opportunity that we call life that we must dream, and fulfil those dreams.
Despite these absurdities I still have hope. Because one of those things that I so desire – that gives meaning to my life – is simply that my convictions, my thoughts and my dreams – my personality – be understood by those closest to me. For all the things ‘mystery’ has brought me, I one day wish to converse with people in a well-lit venue, rather than the darkened room I inhabit now, where people listen to me only vaguely, as they spark matches trying to catch a glimpse of my face as I speak, as if that will reveal more about me than what I am saying, even though I have chosen my words very carefully after much reflection. They seem to think I am being verbose, when really, they listen through a filter of their own design: they assume I am verbose and thus my words of clear thought are heard as if spoken in another language.
What do my lovers know? Committed partners in long-term relationships always claim to know their partners like no other. Other, brief lovers know a fragment: they know only that they do not mesh well, and break it off. Sparse sexual relationships heed regret – not so much for the poor sex as for the self-criticism: ‘how on earth did I think we would work? How wrong could I have been?’ – and this undoubtedly happens many times. Those who say they have no regrets and always learn from their mistakes are liars. Those who cling to snappy one-liners of pop-psychology, trite platitudes like ‘first time, it’s a mistake; second time, it’s a choice’ only fool themselves. Things are far too complicated to know or judge upon until you have engaged with, and made, the mistake.
So, to those people whom I have been in love with and who have loved me in return (note the distinction I make being ‘loving’ and being ‘in love with’, purely to avoid confusion): who were they in love with? A part of me, no doubt; perhaps many. They loved those most uninhibited parts of me. Upon waking, the meeting of the eyes: they know (or knew) my attitude to love. Whether a psychological state, a physiological condition (oxytocin, for example) or a philosophical pang (or all three), they knew my devotion. They knew that when I had fallen in love with them – in totality – that I adhered to the social construct of being their partner. That entailed my trust being completely carried by them; I carried theirs in return. They knew my improvisations; my quickest thinking, my weaknesses; my errors; my familial ties and my argumentative style. They learned the way I was when alone with only one other: a completely different character from he who speaks to strangers with his eyes when alone.
They knew my attitude to sexuality: or rather they experienced the way I expressed my personality through the philosophical translated into the physical. They learned what I knew about the human form, a woman’s mind and the way the world would be if it were mine. Never clumsy, never selfish: human, but with grand ambitions. They knew my attitude to beauty. Perhaps they knew more than I care to admit: but they never knew the truest root of me.
How could they? To be someone’s partner is a performative role: there are norms, and rules. Of course they claim to know me, but all they know is how well I play the role of boyfriend: they know an actor. For, to know a person’s secrets, one must not be affected by them. That is why it is easier to tell a stranger all your secrets, dreams and wishes: you will never meet again – it would be horrible if you did.
That is human nature.
So the lovers think they have won; discovered what lies behind the mystery. But truly, they are the very furthest from the truth. Too many half-truths – and lies – are needed to keep a relationship alive: that is the fuel of the machine.
It is impossible to be in love with someone and to know them too.
What a lover misses is the philosophical. No lover has ever been remotely compatible with me, philosophically. If the chance to talk about it has ever arisen, I tentatively tried to mention absurdity – but the conversation quickly faded into a discussion of what was on television that night, or a commentary on someone else’s relationship and how ours compared. No, there is no place for the philosophical between two sober lovers.
This dovetails nicely with that kind of person which has the misleading label of ‘soul mate’. I do not mean a ‘soul mate’ in the sense of a lover whom one shares all with: perhaps these do exist, but I have not yet met a person who can mix love with philosophy. All mystical semantic associations aside, this is the person (or perhaps small collective) who comes closest to truly knowing a ‘mysterious’ person. They see no mystery: they see intrigue and a complicated person, yes, but there is a level of respect missing from other who attempt to ‘dig’ into the mysterious, rather than place their hand through the smog until they discover the person within.
It is the difference between a hunter who kills a wild beast for sport, for pride, and the delicate being who truly connects with the animal and pierces its animalistic nature.
They see mystery as a label: they see a person whom they love, not a fictional character with a ‘spiritual aura’. Understanding you completely matters not: your wellbeing does.
The ‘soul mate’ can take various forms, of either set: the philosophical type, who shares your passion for the abstract, the questions of life: the type who would gladly listen to you for hours on end, without interrupted – the person you would listen to for hours, when the rest of mankind makes you want to stay shrouded in fog forevermore, stifling you with their hypocrisy and narrow-mindedness. The philosophical soul mate discusses delicate issues with care, but the bond between you is truly adamantine: unbreakable. Thirty years apart would be a tragedy, but would not affect your compatibility.
Then there is the other sort of soul mate, which most would call their ‘best’ friend(s). Rather than engage in talk about superlatives, a description should elucidate the point: mutual interests an complete and utter trust make them an almost divine pleasure to be around. Falling out of contact is a great source of pain, and they always know exactly how to draw a smile from within you even in your darkest times. Truly, they know you more than any other.
But this is still compartmentalisation.
As with the lover, there are certain things one cannot say: if one wants to criticise one must be constructive – never abrupt or curt. Other aspects are simply irrelevant. Attitudes towards love and sex are brief and restrictive, never explored at length. These excellent people embody hedonism (much as you do to them). Hedonism and comfort: these are the people with whom you gladly watch the clock count down to your death. With anyone else, it would be a ‘waste of time’ – with them, worth dying for.
But you are still left with the mystery intact. Outside of yourself, these people come closest, but still (necessarily) fall short. Of course, the ‘mystery’ pervading you was one of the reasons they were attracted to you in the first place – but as soon as you spoke words of clarity, they listened. Some parts of you remain off-limits – but what is illuminated is beautiful and mutually brings meaning to both parties. A collective is even more enchanting, the group dynamic overshadowing mystery – if anything, the collective shares in its own aura and assumes an identity of its own. The burden of carrying ‘mystery’ around with you is shared, and you are brought yet closer by these events.
It goes almost without saying that familiar ties, and love, are restricted to a few areas of interest. That is what friends are for: similar ages, mutual interests, etc.. It would seem that where there is intense love there cannot be a full exposition of one’s secrets.
The final two groups of people could well be distinguished – but with regards to ‘mystery’ and its effect on people (and, indeed, how it comes about), I will be considering more distanced friends, acquaintances and people attracted to the mystery as one group (albeit a tiered one).
Please excuse my venom in dealing with the issue, as it is this group that promotes and so greatly loves the label: these are the people who have caused me to reflect on the issue at hand to and write this. I do not bear them ill will; that would be spiteful. However, I wish to address them directly honestly and hide nothing.
Is it a simple misunderstanding? Should I view the label as a positive one? I understand that it has its benefits and that it can be viewed as a compliment: but when your nature cries out to enlighten and elucidate, being called ‘mysterious’ can become discouraging.
If it is a simple case of misunderstanding, then perhaps if I reveal some of the ways in which my thoughts are connected, perhaps things will become clearer. One of the major factors that leads people to call me mysterious is that I am comfortable on my own. When I say ‘comfortable’, I mean most comfortable. Isolation is my habitat of choice. As expressed above, I have a profound love – whether platonic or romantic – for those closest to me. I have described it in the reverse: rather, only those whom I love do I spend time with: even these people I only see briefly. I feel that if I have not spent enough time in isolation; if I have not come up with something original and important; if I have not earned it, then I have nothing to share. Even then, such gifts are hard-won and ephemeral: and so I quickly feel guilty for not returning to thinking or improving myself. Thus, I am found in isolation most of the time.
This is easily (and commonly) viewed as me ‘not making an effort’ – I accept that it can appear this way, in some respects – but if anyone who cares to red this will begin to understand, it is not a lack of effort on my behalf: it is a set of high standards; I cannot reach the appropriate self-worth without a precise formula, the main ingredient of which is time spent alone in contemplation; reflection. Only when I have gifts to bear and a shining confidence can I help and inspire my friends, whom I love so dearly. And that is what I strive to be: an inspiration. I have been told I am a ‘doer’ rather than a dreamer: I have grand, grand dreams, but I slog away at them. I eventually reach and achieve them. I do not let myself dream for too long without applying myself to succeeding in attaining them. And it is an aspiration of mine to help those few people I call friends – more brothers and sisters – those people I would die for – in whatever grand ambitions they have of their own, or try to alleviate any suffering they undergo. And so it is that some may view me as mysterious because of my sparse presence in the world; I am hard to spot. But I believe that when I do step out into the world, I make a far greater impact than I would if I spent most of my time there. I would not change this aspect of myself even if I could.
What other reasons are there why I might be considered mysterious? Perhaps it is the fact that I am largely a curmudgeon – but a desperately optimistic one. ‘I like the idea of humans,’ a great quote goes, ‘but not their implementation.’ I love the idealised notion of humanity: I am a loyal humanist and believe in the species; and yet I have fierce criticisms of (nearly) every single instance of the species homo sapiens – myself included. I am the first to laugh at the follies of mankind and even quicker to cry. Too many promises get made: they simply cannot all be true at once. Mortality takes its toll – absurdity is the undercurrent of modern man. Relationships are doomed to end: death is the only certainty. Man has nothing to do but face those facts or distract himself. Perhaps I am frustrated too easily: who is to say man is wrong for spending his time idolising celebrity and bathing in the blissful gamut of reality television? I suppose the aggravation stems from a love of humanity’s potential – what it could be.
That is, perhaps, my strongest belief – or dream – of all. That man could be so much: a cultivated, neo-Renaissance man in love with science and in love with art, in love with humanity itself – no reliance on ‘God’: a focus on the short time we have here on earth: where his focus is to cultivate his body to great health (using drugs sensibly, if he so chooses to be a psychonaut); his mind to aesthetic perfection and his knowledge of the world brimming over the edge, teaming with life and enthusiasm; passion: life his religion, hate a mere relic of the past. Emotion and logic blended into one. And I do not mean pure hedonistic utilitarianism: duties are fulfilled, justice is achieved, relationships are healthy. I dream of a world wide human flourishing.
Is that why I am mysterious? Because I hold these and various other opinions all at once? Perhaps they are original – perhaps not. I believe the unique combination of all of my passions are. Perhaps it is that I contained within me such a wide variety of emotions and dreams and interests that I appear thoroughly mysterious. Perhaps explaining myself only reveals my complication inner-workings: but that is what I think I am: complicated, not mysterious.
But what do you think, dear reader? For what does my opinion matter? Those labels applied to me cannot change who I am or how I think. Whilst I have revealed a small amount of my thinking, I wonder if I am more confusing than I was at the beginning? It seems the greatest revelation has been left until the end.
Only in this – through this – without – my audience – can I truly connect. I am naked; totally exposed; open to interpretation. Only in this silent conversation between your mind and mine can I come even close to revealing who I am. Only you can judge me – if I am mysterious, bold, good, bad, pathetic, trite, needless; etc..
The question is, dear reader: who am I? What am I? Am I a misery or a mystery? Am I words or am I thought? Am I a man or am I just a shadow – a dream?
The mystery is now all mine: you are unknown to me, and I want to know all about you.
Mystery is the great attraction, after all.
People love nothing more than to understand and to take pleasure in spreading knowledge – and in the retelling, to massage their ego. Consequently, in cracking the unknown, there are two main approaches: to become frustrated and to ignore the mystery (or accept that one is incapable of comprehending it) or to redouble one’s efforts and make it one’s personal mission to understand. Knowledge attains the position of victory.
I never would have described myself as ‘mysterious’: I gained that label from others – a particular group of people who are close to me, intrigued by me, but are not so close to as to pierce into the consciousness behind the supposed ‘mystery’. For various reasons, those who are not close to me take less interested in me and/or regard me with contempt – a mutual relationship. Of course, the persona of mystery means people want to ‘crack’ you. They want to be the first person to do so, to really crack you. Like discovering a new element on the periodic table, they want to uncover your true nature. As I said, mysteriousness adds much attractiveness: even at your least confident, at your most dejected, people are still intrigued. Why are you depressed? What profound worries burden you? In many ways this can help alleviate the melancholy: people showing interest – care – can help lift all but the darkest of clouds.
The problem is that the reverse is true: when you are at your most comfortable; happy – the simplest, most straightforward emotion — that is when the mystery gets in the way. It becomes a burden in itself. Mystery, to me, is black. Dark. A semantic smog which hides your white-hot ambitions, intentions and feelings. It becomes a barrier between you and the rest of the world. Within: clarity. To the outside: obfuscation. Mystery.
This is the truth: every part of my thinking, I understand. There is a complete system within: beliefs underpin others; my interconnecting psychological pipelines are all in order. Clarity and precision are my great allies – and yet the world experiences me – outwardly – as blighted by wisps and shadows.
At the intersection between the internal and the external is where I am lost in translation: misunderstood, isolated – labelled. Described as a mystery.
II
Despite this, many claim to ‘know’ me. In a sense, that is true: each particular group understands one aspect of me – one of my many faces. But by turns, they are completely wrong about other – equally important – aspects of my nature – and to know only one part of what I stand for, without the whole, is to misunderstand. No wonder they call me mysterious: the parts are not mutually self-supporting. And there are many paradoxes within, inverting particular beliefs and complicating matters. But complexity and mystery are two very different concepts. I admit that I am complicated – but I maintain that I only appear mysterious because no one person can access every part of my thinking.
It is absurd in itself: to think that anyone could ever ‘know’ anyone – or would even want to, given the multiplicity of feelings and opinions we have about a single topic, with all of our frailties and contradictions. It is as absurd as the feeling we have that life has a meaning.
But just as we must continue to live with this absurdity in the back of our minds with regards to a transcendent meaning to life, so too we must pretend that we ‘know’ people; that we ever could, or would want to. And amidst these philosophical sinking sands of truth, we must build constructs: we must assess what we truly want, who we truly are and what (or who) we want to be. When the great equaliser has its way, we will be exactly that: equal; so it is in this transient window of opportunity that we call life that we must dream, and fulfil those dreams.
Despite these absurdities I still have hope. Because one of those things that I so desire – that gives meaning to my life – is simply that my convictions, my thoughts and my dreams – my personality – be understood by those closest to me. For all the things ‘mystery’ has brought me, I one day wish to converse with people in a well-lit venue, rather than the darkened room I inhabit now, where people listen to me only vaguely, as they spark matches trying to catch a glimpse of my face as I speak, as if that will reveal more about me than what I am saying, even though I have chosen my words very carefully after much reflection. They seem to think I am being verbose, when really, they listen through a filter of their own design: they assume I am verbose and thus my words of clear thought are heard as if spoken in another language.
III
What do my lovers know? Committed partners in long-term relationships always claim to know their partners like no other. Other, brief lovers know a fragment: they know only that they do not mesh well, and break it off. Sparse sexual relationships heed regret – not so much for the poor sex as for the self-criticism: ‘how on earth did I think we would work? How wrong could I have been?’ – and this undoubtedly happens many times. Those who say they have no regrets and always learn from their mistakes are liars. Those who cling to snappy one-liners of pop-psychology, trite platitudes like ‘first time, it’s a mistake; second time, it’s a choice’ only fool themselves. Things are far too complicated to know or judge upon until you have engaged with, and made, the mistake.
So, to those people whom I have been in love with and who have loved me in return (note the distinction I make being ‘loving’ and being ‘in love with’, purely to avoid confusion): who were they in love with? A part of me, no doubt; perhaps many. They loved those most uninhibited parts of me. Upon waking, the meeting of the eyes: they know (or knew) my attitude to love. Whether a psychological state, a physiological condition (oxytocin, for example) or a philosophical pang (or all three), they knew my devotion. They knew that when I had fallen in love with them – in totality – that I adhered to the social construct of being their partner. That entailed my trust being completely carried by them; I carried theirs in return. They knew my improvisations; my quickest thinking, my weaknesses; my errors; my familial ties and my argumentative style. They learned the way I was when alone with only one other: a completely different character from he who speaks to strangers with his eyes when alone.
They knew my attitude to sexuality: or rather they experienced the way I expressed my personality through the philosophical translated into the physical. They learned what I knew about the human form, a woman’s mind and the way the world would be if it were mine. Never clumsy, never selfish: human, but with grand ambitions. They knew my attitude to beauty. Perhaps they knew more than I care to admit: but they never knew the truest root of me.
How could they? To be someone’s partner is a performative role: there are norms, and rules. Of course they claim to know me, but all they know is how well I play the role of boyfriend: they know an actor. For, to know a person’s secrets, one must not be affected by them. That is why it is easier to tell a stranger all your secrets, dreams and wishes: you will never meet again – it would be horrible if you did.
That is human nature.
So the lovers think they have won; discovered what lies behind the mystery. But truly, they are the very furthest from the truth. Too many half-truths – and lies – are needed to keep a relationship alive: that is the fuel of the machine.
It is impossible to be in love with someone and to know them too.
IV
What a lover misses is the philosophical. No lover has ever been remotely compatible with me, philosophically. If the chance to talk about it has ever arisen, I tentatively tried to mention absurdity – but the conversation quickly faded into a discussion of what was on television that night, or a commentary on someone else’s relationship and how ours compared. No, there is no place for the philosophical between two sober lovers.
This dovetails nicely with that kind of person which has the misleading label of ‘soul mate’. I do not mean a ‘soul mate’ in the sense of a lover whom one shares all with: perhaps these do exist, but I have not yet met a person who can mix love with philosophy. All mystical semantic associations aside, this is the person (or perhaps small collective) who comes closest to truly knowing a ‘mysterious’ person. They see no mystery: they see intrigue and a complicated person, yes, but there is a level of respect missing from other who attempt to ‘dig’ into the mysterious, rather than place their hand through the smog until they discover the person within.
It is the difference between a hunter who kills a wild beast for sport, for pride, and the delicate being who truly connects with the animal and pierces its animalistic nature.
They see mystery as a label: they see a person whom they love, not a fictional character with a ‘spiritual aura’. Understanding you completely matters not: your wellbeing does.
The ‘soul mate’ can take various forms, of either set: the philosophical type, who shares your passion for the abstract, the questions of life: the type who would gladly listen to you for hours on end, without interrupted – the person you would listen to for hours, when the rest of mankind makes you want to stay shrouded in fog forevermore, stifling you with their hypocrisy and narrow-mindedness. The philosophical soul mate discusses delicate issues with care, but the bond between you is truly adamantine: unbreakable. Thirty years apart would be a tragedy, but would not affect your compatibility.
Then there is the other sort of soul mate, which most would call their ‘best’ friend(s). Rather than engage in talk about superlatives, a description should elucidate the point: mutual interests an complete and utter trust make them an almost divine pleasure to be around. Falling out of contact is a great source of pain, and they always know exactly how to draw a smile from within you even in your darkest times. Truly, they know you more than any other.
But this is still compartmentalisation.
As with the lover, there are certain things one cannot say: if one wants to criticise one must be constructive – never abrupt or curt. Other aspects are simply irrelevant. Attitudes towards love and sex are brief and restrictive, never explored at length. These excellent people embody hedonism (much as you do to them). Hedonism and comfort: these are the people with whom you gladly watch the clock count down to your death. With anyone else, it would be a ‘waste of time’ – with them, worth dying for.
But you are still left with the mystery intact. Outside of yourself, these people come closest, but still (necessarily) fall short. Of course, the ‘mystery’ pervading you was one of the reasons they were attracted to you in the first place – but as soon as you spoke words of clarity, they listened. Some parts of you remain off-limits – but what is illuminated is beautiful and mutually brings meaning to both parties. A collective is even more enchanting, the group dynamic overshadowing mystery – if anything, the collective shares in its own aura and assumes an identity of its own. The burden of carrying ‘mystery’ around with you is shared, and you are brought yet closer by these events.
V
It goes almost without saying that familiar ties, and love, are restricted to a few areas of interest. That is what friends are for: similar ages, mutual interests, etc.. It would seem that where there is intense love there cannot be a full exposition of one’s secrets.
The final two groups of people could well be distinguished – but with regards to ‘mystery’ and its effect on people (and, indeed, how it comes about), I will be considering more distanced friends, acquaintances and people attracted to the mystery as one group (albeit a tiered one).
Please excuse my venom in dealing with the issue, as it is this group that promotes and so greatly loves the label: these are the people who have caused me to reflect on the issue at hand to and write this. I do not bear them ill will; that would be spiteful. However, I wish to address them directly honestly and hide nothing.
Is it a simple misunderstanding? Should I view the label as a positive one? I understand that it has its benefits and that it can be viewed as a compliment: but when your nature cries out to enlighten and elucidate, being called ‘mysterious’ can become discouraging.
If it is a simple case of misunderstanding, then perhaps if I reveal some of the ways in which my thoughts are connected, perhaps things will become clearer. One of the major factors that leads people to call me mysterious is that I am comfortable on my own. When I say ‘comfortable’, I mean most comfortable. Isolation is my habitat of choice. As expressed above, I have a profound love – whether platonic or romantic – for those closest to me. I have described it in the reverse: rather, only those whom I love do I spend time with: even these people I only see briefly. I feel that if I have not spent enough time in isolation; if I have not come up with something original and important; if I have not earned it, then I have nothing to share. Even then, such gifts are hard-won and ephemeral: and so I quickly feel guilty for not returning to thinking or improving myself. Thus, I am found in isolation most of the time.
This is easily (and commonly) viewed as me ‘not making an effort’ – I accept that it can appear this way, in some respects – but if anyone who cares to red this will begin to understand, it is not a lack of effort on my behalf: it is a set of high standards; I cannot reach the appropriate self-worth without a precise formula, the main ingredient of which is time spent alone in contemplation; reflection. Only when I have gifts to bear and a shining confidence can I help and inspire my friends, whom I love so dearly. And that is what I strive to be: an inspiration. I have been told I am a ‘doer’ rather than a dreamer: I have grand, grand dreams, but I slog away at them. I eventually reach and achieve them. I do not let myself dream for too long without applying myself to succeeding in attaining them. And it is an aspiration of mine to help those few people I call friends – more brothers and sisters – those people I would die for – in whatever grand ambitions they have of their own, or try to alleviate any suffering they undergo. And so it is that some may view me as mysterious because of my sparse presence in the world; I am hard to spot. But I believe that when I do step out into the world, I make a far greater impact than I would if I spent most of my time there. I would not change this aspect of myself even if I could.
What other reasons are there why I might be considered mysterious? Perhaps it is the fact that I am largely a curmudgeon – but a desperately optimistic one. ‘I like the idea of humans,’ a great quote goes, ‘but not their implementation.’ I love the idealised notion of humanity: I am a loyal humanist and believe in the species; and yet I have fierce criticisms of (nearly) every single instance of the species homo sapiens – myself included. I am the first to laugh at the follies of mankind and even quicker to cry. Too many promises get made: they simply cannot all be true at once. Mortality takes its toll – absurdity is the undercurrent of modern man. Relationships are doomed to end: death is the only certainty. Man has nothing to do but face those facts or distract himself. Perhaps I am frustrated too easily: who is to say man is wrong for spending his time idolising celebrity and bathing in the blissful gamut of reality television? I suppose the aggravation stems from a love of humanity’s potential – what it could be.
That is, perhaps, my strongest belief – or dream – of all. That man could be so much: a cultivated, neo-Renaissance man in love with science and in love with art, in love with humanity itself – no reliance on ‘God’: a focus on the short time we have here on earth: where his focus is to cultivate his body to great health (using drugs sensibly, if he so chooses to be a psychonaut); his mind to aesthetic perfection and his knowledge of the world brimming over the edge, teaming with life and enthusiasm; passion: life his religion, hate a mere relic of the past. Emotion and logic blended into one. And I do not mean pure hedonistic utilitarianism: duties are fulfilled, justice is achieved, relationships are healthy. I dream of a world wide human flourishing.
Is that why I am mysterious? Because I hold these and various other opinions all at once? Perhaps they are original – perhaps not. I believe the unique combination of all of my passions are. Perhaps it is that I contained within me such a wide variety of emotions and dreams and interests that I appear thoroughly mysterious. Perhaps explaining myself only reveals my complication inner-workings: but that is what I think I am: complicated, not mysterious.
VI
But what do you think, dear reader? For what does my opinion matter? Those labels applied to me cannot change who I am or how I think. Whilst I have revealed a small amount of my thinking, I wonder if I am more confusing than I was at the beginning? It seems the greatest revelation has been left until the end.
Only in this – through this – without – my audience – can I truly connect. I am naked; totally exposed; open to interpretation. Only in this silent conversation between your mind and mine can I come even close to revealing who I am. Only you can judge me – if I am mysterious, bold, good, bad, pathetic, trite, needless; etc..
The question is, dear reader: who am I? What am I? Am I a misery or a mystery? Am I words or am I thought? Am I a man or am I just a shadow – a dream?
The mystery is now all mine: you are unknown to me, and I want to know all about you.
Mystery is the great attraction, after all.
A Short Story,
Published 24 January 2012
Published 24 January 2012