Brokeback Mountain The Souls of A Mountain

There is a thick line that separates wildly painted dreams from the heart wrenching reality humans find themselves forced to live in.

Like a fence, one can't be on both sides at the same time. The choice to live in a dream other's are disgusted by or keep up the life of a washed out lie is the decision that can break even the strongest willed man. The power of this conclusion is unlike any other; one finds himself bending and breaking until the end. The hardships an individual faces just to keep up secret rendezvous and bask in the tainted torment of an undying desire is something I would wish upon no one.

On that one side of the fence, it feels as if bars are erected on every which side; there is no escape from a tiresome dream. Yet, the other side of that forsaken barrier is all the worse. A false smile; mask of contentment; lying with the mother of one's children and then beckoned into dreams of another man. It ain't no way to live.

No matter what side one chooses, there is no avoiding the consequences; they are absolute. The stained and pale white boney hand of Death awaits to grasp an individual once that forceful choice is made. Whatever they choose is the seal on their envelope of death; oblivion awaits on either side. Life, though, is far worse than death. To feel the chilled hand of a sweat-laden nightmare upon one's waking body both day and night is torment in itself. And there ain't no escape. Not until Death takes hold of the throat and chokes the living soul out of you.

Is death really an escape, though? I ain't been past the light of the living, so my mind wouldn't recall any bliss in a life beyond this one. I don't look forward to a never ending after life of ecstasy neither. There ain't no place for people like myself in this God forsaken world nor in any place after the grave. I never been one to complain, though; never been one to talk really. Smartest way for a man to live is keep his lips pursed and his mind focused on what he desires most in his life. Talk leads to trouble and that's just that. I ain't saying talkative people are trouble in themselves, just what comes out of their sinful lips is. Most folks regret what their tongue speaks the moment the words leave their mouths and that's why my voice is, for the most part, inert.

Over the years, I think I've come to realize that death isn't what is meant to be feared. No; a life of wasted time, decaying on the inside as each passing minute alone goes by, that is what should be dreaded the most. To live on having no meaning to, yet not having enough strength and despair to take one's own life is the purest and most precise form of torture. Physical pain is temporary, but a wound to one's heart; one's soul will last for eternity.

It's the crime I pay for not committing like he did; for not giving to him like he gave to me. I ain't never been a devoted person, though. Everything I ever needed seemed to have been swept from my reach throughout my pathetic life. By distancing myself from what my heart, body, and soul needed, I brought myself closer to losing what I longed to have as mine. I'll never know why I didn't fully grasp the dream that was vividly painted before my feet. I can only guess it was because of the spine chilling fear that always ran through my tainted, broken body every time a life beyond the barriers was mentioned.

The only refuge I ever possessed was atop that precious Brokeback Mountain; the feelings of freedom I obtained by being their were feelings I had never experienced before in my life. The being who possessed by true heart became mine, even for only a night; our bodies and souls united into one. And even though the inhabitants of this infected world preached of how our union was wrong, it didn't feel anything but right. I've always been a stubborn and ignorant man, caring mostly for myself alone. Even when offered the chance to make Brokeback Mountain a reality, I rejected it; the refusal ultimately leading to the loss of that dream and who was a part of it.

The darkness that has slowly crept up on my forlorn being has almost taken over; I can feel it's cold fingers prying at my mind as my thoughts stray to _him_. I can't even keep a tab on the numbers of times I've cursed myself for letting him go back to that son of a bitch town without me. The countless times I was weak enough to tell him to leave me be; what life did I have anyways? How naïve I was to think that he would come crawling back to me even after I had thrown his dreams back in his face – the hurt was apparent on his features and yet I chose to ignore it.

Living alone is a temporary escape. Slowly, though, the guilt of one's undying sorrows begins to consume his conscious making reality seem as desolate and hopeless as the fiery pit of Hell itself. I ain't strong, but I sure as hell ain't weak enough to let the darkness put its reins on my mind. Leaving my lonely life, my soulless body wandered around until I finally opened my mind's eye and found myself here; Texas. How my feet had led me to the place I had refused to go, I had no inclination. It wasn't no coincidence, though, I can tell you that much. I ain't never believed in predestination, but I figured it was fate that led my boots all the way down to southern soil.

The reality built down here ain't much better than the one I had, but it's a minor improvement. The crunch of the undying cockroaches that inhabit the mattress of the bed that belongs to the motel I'm staying at are a constant company on my many nights of laying awake. The insane notions of my mind have found that the peeling wallpaper covered walls are good listeners, never making comments about the shameful dream I still find flittering around in my broken mind. There ain't enough times I have to tell myself that dream died long ago and it ain't ever rising up again…

My throat clenched at the feeling of a sudden spicy hot bite from the whiskey I had gulped down decided to tickle it. I shook my head, grunting softly to myself. Another day, another dollar wasted on rotten whiskey. I ain't ever becoming sober and that's just that. My nostrils twitched and flared as I took in a big breath, my chest expanding before then falling quickly as I exhaled. It had been a long day of doing nothing that satisfied me – nothing ever satisfied me. Working out at the oil fields wasn't exactly my idea of a dream come true, but it pays well and keeps me alive so I figure it ain't that bad. I doubt anything could make my reality any more hopeless than it already is.

Sniffling some, I reached my wrist up to wipe at my nose, the smell of moldy, dry blood overtaking the sensory in my nostrils. The cobalt hues that I possessed glanced down quickly at my wrist and the memory of why stained blood still occupied my shirt hit me hard; I felt my throat clench, though, I managed to keep my eyes from glassing over. It had been hard, but over time I had trained myself to reject any sudden memories that decided to overtake me in a public place. At the moment, a bar would not be the best of places to let my vulnerable side show through. Lowering my wrist back down as I grabbed for my mug, my cyan orbs glanced up at the bartender, his own eyes scrutinizing me as if searching and finding the dirtied secrets of the past I had left behind. My brow furrowed, my lips pursed, and I looked away to scan the area of the bar.

I coughed lowly as the smell of smoke hit my senses, though, I was for the most part immune to the scent and so my breathing carried on as normal. My mind comprehended that most of the occupants were of Mexican decent and I figured it was because of how close the bar's location was to the border. I inwardly glared at each of them, jealousy of how the partner in my dream had used them as a means of satisfying his need. Jealousy was never an emotion I considered dominant in my character, but I ain't never going to forgive them Mexicans for occupying his needs; that was my job and mine alone.

I winced and glared at nothing in particular, realizing that I was letting the emotions of such memories take over me once more and I swiftly pushed all feelings and thoughts away from my psyche; they had no right to bother me anyways.

My gaze began to brush over the other attendees of the bar once more, my eyes catching and holding the sight of another white man. He, the bartender, and myself were most likely the only Caucasian individuals in the entire building; my eyes stayed upon him. From his appearance, my mind judged him older than myself by quite a few years. A roguish beard occupied his jaw and beady eyes adorned his sockets. Licking my lips, I felt a sentiment of repulsion towards the man – he laughed a hearty laugh that made my blood boil underneath my heated skin.

I felt my fingers twitch upon my glass, though, I didn't move an inch. I had no recollection of the man and so had no right to feel such resentment towards him. My eardrums picked up the sound of another laugh, though, it belonged to someone closer to my age. I realized then that the man was not alone. Letting my half lidded eyes slide to his partner, I stared without seeing for a few moments. The slamming of my main valve against my rib cage awoke my orbs to see and I observed the other just as I had stared the other man.

Trying to swallow, I found any substance of saliva had evaporated from my mouth as I continued staring at the other silhouette. The dark brown hair and soft mustache that occupied the other's upper lip along with those molasses tinted hues made me wonder if I was really in this hell hole of a bar or if my mind was wandering while I slumbered. It's not like I ain't had a dream like vision of him coming back to life before. I continued staring, my ears adjusted to tuning out any other sound but the pitches of his laughter and voice.

Recognition filtered through my body and I shuddered involuntarily. Reaching a hand up, I hunched over more, pulling the tip of my hat to cover more of my face. Turning back around, I couldn't repeat enough to myself that that was not him sitting only a room's length away from me. Glancing to the bartender, I waved him over, my back still hunched as to hide my form.

"You get the name of that man sitting over there?" I pointed at the his table.

The bartender's gaze wandered over to where my shaky finger was pointing and he nodded. "I didn't get no first name, but he called himself Twist. I ain't got no idea what that is supposed to mean, but I ain't one to ask questions. I just work here."

I choked on my own breath, not even giving a nod of thanks to him as he turned away. My curious gaze glanced behind me once more, not being able to help myself, and I suddenly questioned inwardly what he was doing at the bar with another man. That same feeling of jealousy that had overtaken my being before came over me again and I cursed myself and the other man profusely. My loathing towards that man now became logical and I silently stood, throwing a dollar down for the drink before strolling swiftly out the pub door. Turning around the corner of the building, I occupied myself in the darkness of the alley beside the bar. Once the shadows covered my form, I let my fist fly; it met harshly with the wall and I cursed shrewdly as I pulled my hand back to me. The knuckles oozed fresh blood. Turning myself around, I panted heavily as I leaned my back against the chilled wall wondering how this could possibly be reality. So many foolish questions ran through my mind and I grimaced in utter confusion.


End file.

Brokeback Mountain, Drama, Romance