So if I asked you about art, you’d
probably give me the skinny on every art book ever written.
Michelangelo, you
know a lot about him. Life’s work,
political aspirations, him and the pope, sexual
orientations, the whole
works, right? But I’ll bet
you can’t tell me what it smells like in the
Sistine Chapel. You’ve never
actually stood there and
looked up at that beautiful ceiling; seen that. If
I ask you about women, you’d
probably give me a syllabus
about your personal favorites. You may have even been laid a few times. But you can’t
tell me what it feels like to
wake up next to a woman and
feel truly happy. You’re a tough kid. And I’d ask you about
war, you’d probably throw
Shakespeare at me, right,
“once more unto the breach dear friends.” But you’ve never
been near one. You’ve
never held your best
friend’s head in your lap, watch him gasp his last breath
looking to you for help. I’d
ask you about love, you’d
probably quote me a sonnet. But you’ve never looked at a woman
and been totally
vulnerable. Known someone that
could level you with her eyes, feeling like God put
an angel on earth just for
you. Who could rescue you from
the depths of hell. And you wouldn’t know what it’s like to be her angel, to have that
love for her, be there
forever, through anything, through cancer. And you wouldn’t know about
sleeping sitting up in the
hospital room for two months, holding her hand, because the doctors could see in
your eyes, that the terms “visiting hours” don’t apply to you. You don’t know about real loss,
’cause it only occurs when you’ve loved
something
more than you love yourself.
And I doubt you’ve ever dared to love anybody that much. And
look at you… I
don’t see an intelligent,
confident man… I see a co/cky, scared sh|tless kid. But
you’re a genius Will. No one
denies that. No one could
possibly understand the depths of you. But you presume to
know everything about me
because you saw a painting of
mine, and you ripped my f|cking life apart. You’re an orphan right? … You think I know
the first thing about how hard
your life has been, how you
feel, who you are, because I read Oliver Twist? Does
that encapsulate you?
Personally… I don’t give a
sh|t about all that, because you know what, I can’t learn
anything from you, I can’t
read in some f|ckin’ book.
Unless you want to talk about you, who you are. Then I’m
fascinated. I’m in.
But you don’t want to do
that do you sport? You’re terrified of what you might say. Your
move, chief.