The Day Lewis Monologue

PROLOGUE
Everything that begins, ends. And everything that ends, has it’s second coming. Whether it may be an idea, an event, or a person; ends are not final, just the means to restart. James knew this, so did John - so they could never long for each other, only anticipate the day when they once again would embrace each other like they once did. Their love was eternal, they insisted. That the sun and moon would cease to love before they did. That tides would quell and darkness reign. But the sun must set and so only then can the moon rise; one must lay low for the other to soar. Every day, week, and month are they doomed to chase each other, only to miss by the slimmest margin. Given sentience, they would yearn for the day they came together,

as one - the day that sun and moon share the sky, in perfect grace. But they know not of such a time, they would proclaim it impossible, unachievable. Until it isn’t. The pages that follow tell the story of unrequited love, impossible days, and a life’s journey to fulfil desires unknown even to themselves. But above all else, they recall the events of the very last Solar Eclipse

CHAPTER 1 - “The Dreamscape”

A deep gorge divorced James from the far side of his mattress, it’s emptiness resonating with his own.

An enduring monument to his inadequacy to which he would employ a slumbering retreat. He would wrestle with his body for a brief respite from the perpetual torture that was his insomnia, tossing and turning over every inch of his bed west of the fissure that was once full of love, but never would he attempt to traverse it’s curves and corners for fear of falling into it’s deep, depressive vicinity. He lay there, awake again. His mind a highway of thoughts, only this highway had no lights, no exits, and no colour. He was stood resolute, immovable in the vast sea of movement. Surveying the surroundings that lay before him, he saw only mountainous regions of terrain, casting even more monstrous shadows over him. Each one taller than the last and twice as dark. Some would have the carved faces of past friends, frozen in a state of lament, both in time, and stone. The only solace in the midnight world was a single patch of firm, fresh grass, with a tasteful tartan picnic basket - ribbons and all. Entirely devoid of food, yet still somehow quenching his desires. A single ray of light in an otherwise nefarious expanse, shrouded in atrocities unfit even for the infernal realms of hell. The lighthouse in treacherous waters, guiding him to the reliable shores that are his most vivid and treasured

memories.

Suddenly darkness relinquishes it’s dominion from his surroundings and brilliant white light pierces through the veil and illuminates both the world he inhabits and the life he is reliving. Torrents of piercing winds are replaced with the gentle breath of a friend, the stale air replaced by a lovers sweetness and the deafening stillness is remade into all so familiar laughter. Around him, the landscape diversifies from the sharp peaks of mountains to the mellow curves of hills, where grass once lay alone, upon barren ground, it now diffuses into every corner of perception; every horizon a deep, green jade pendant swinging in time with the temperate breeze. Stunning, yet sombre. Each memory a twin blade, with intensity further refining it’s serrations and, ultimately, it’s bane. One glance bears immutable joy, another, incalculable agony. A dozen moments can pass his gaze before suffering the taint of loss, often times a solitary memoir can bury the knife in his back; it is the recollection of our lives that exemplify our soul, and how it is perceived by onlookers.

James’ arduous battle for rest draws to a close as nostalgia overtakes his thoughts and relieves his overburdened mind of it’s tolls. An inability to recall the night’s strenuous events will befall James as he stirs from his slumber tomorrow, beginning the new day as if he was a babe, all concepts of loss foreign and forgotten to him. Despite the prolonged journey for sleep, it’s end was entirely sudden. A mere 4 hours were spent in the clutches of his sheets, an unexceptional duration by his standards. James lay there, sprawled over the entirety of his divan, minus the impassable zone, pondering his morning routine, or more accurately, it’s revolution.

His mornings prior to John’s abrupt departure were vibrant, with an abundance of affection; however, more recently, they have been entirely devoid of all feelings.

Necessities are the only occurrences now. The need for sustenance and hydration, primal urges. Personal hygiene being an essential and fundamental requirement in the modern era; similarly, grooming is expected, therefore performed. Concerns of fashion are retired in lieu of more pragmatic concerns, such as career and potential happiness. The mere notion of any intimacy is quickly disregarded as if James is able to divulge such thoughts for any length of time, he becomes increasingly unstable. He despised his new life, it’s disparity between the past brought many old truths upon his doorstep. He would glance towards the table, teeming with papers and letters, only to see the faint echoes of mornings past. He had assured himself that he would remain ignorant of all trinkets and trophies that were reminiscent of John, it was just too distressing to indulge. Despite his finest efforts, he would often break the ceasefire and consider an objects intimate significance, often to his dismay. He would only ever find sorrow in his efforts. He sat down with a bowl of Muesli, his breakfast meal of choice for any work day - he found ample comfort in the energy supposedly held by the rabbit food; in darkness, and companion-less, he ate his food, vehemently determined it would one day provide a surge of energy to his very much

depleted life force.

James dried his hands on the supple wash cloth, delighted he took the time to thoroughly scrub his used dishes. He grasped the brass handrail beside the atypically steep staircase and began his ascent to the bathroom, wherein he found solace in such a familiar and snug room. Locking the door, he twisted the ornate bath fixtures to a steady flow of lukewarm water, then again to a more temperate setting; a ritual, of sorts, he had developed from his late mother, a stubborn, superstitious woman. Lukewarm water to diminish the chances of scalding, then hot for pleasure. With the water flowing at an alarming pace, James accelerates his process, undressing with haste as he yearns for the water’s embrace.