The first one speaks. "You know intuitively that we are both incapable of the same things, that we speak on terms outside of our limitations to survive—why do you come to me?"
"To so see." He had come to her from far away.
"Why need you see, if you have been told before what I have just said?"
"You 'just said' the answer yourself: You have told me something that you are forced to say because you cannot live it yourself. And so I cannot believe that if you tell it to me."
"Why do you think that I care if you believe me?"
"Because you tried to tell me something," he answered.
"Tell you . . . what?"
"Anything. You spoke; you must have cared if you were heard."
"Why do you come from so far away to listen to just anything?"
"Because you speak beautifully, and because I think you need to be believed."
"You know intuitively that I do. But you can never believe me, never believe what I can only tell."
"I shall always listen," he insisted.
"And not believe? Then that is love, man—listening, wanting to believe yet without believing, without ever a hope to believe."
"I came to see," he repeated.
"I do not believe what you tell me," she replied. "I know what I see. You came here to love."
"And if I always try to listen—"
"I shall call it love," she finished.
"And if I yet never believe but stay, close, listening?"
"I shall call it love. And you must remember that I warned you that I do not want your love."
"What, then, do I have at all?" he asked. "What do you want?"
"To be believed, having never had to be seen; to be heard, having never had to be loved; to be loved, simply, without the questions of Belief, nor of Sight, nor of Sound."
"You know that we are both incapable of either giving or receiving those things, that we speak on terms outside of that limitation to survive, to feel whole," he protested. "Why do you say that to me?"
"So that you might so see," was her reply.
|Copyright © 1978, 1995, 2005 by David Newkirk. All rights reserved.|