Final exams are over, and I felt like celebrating. So what
do I do? Write something depressing about Beast, who I've never written and
don't feel all that comfortable about writing. Go, me!
It's not coming tonight.
The factor of meditation which makes it a successful method of winding down, destressing, and calming oneself is the alpha state. This is a plane of clarity, of non-thought, achieved through regular breathing and mental conditioning.
Usually, I enter alpha within the first five minutes of meditation and then drift off on a perfectly serene contemplation of the deeper mysteries of life. But alpha is not forthcoming tonight.
If I had to hazard a guess as to why--I would have to say it was Scott.
Not that I have a problem with our Fearless Leader in and of himself, let me hasten to assure you. I've known Scott, Jean, Warren, and Bobby so long and well that I don't think I could be angry with them for extended amounts of time, in any case. Although everyone's favourite Ice-Pick likes to periodically test our levels of endurance....
But I digress.
Ah, yes--the reason for my mental disarray. Scott Summers, Happily Married Man.
To be quite honest (and, if I can't be honest with myself, then who with?), Scott isn't the only one. There's also Remy LeBeau, L'Homme Fantastique du Filles. Warren Worthington, High-Flying Playboy. Even, God help me, Logan the Animalistic Wonder Hunk and Kurt Wagner the Swashbuckling Charmer.
Compare those to "Hank McCoy, Resident Genius" and you'll notice the difference.
It isn't that I begrudge my fellow men of the X their amazing romantic prowess, their legions of fair-featured feminine conquests, and their mutually loving, supportive relationships....
That's not a very convincing pronouncement, is it?
Perhaps I am a tad bitter. Not wormwood, by any extent, but milder on the bitterness scale. Like a bad cucumber. I am the bad cucumber in the X-Men salad of life.
To get back on track and hopefully make more sense....
I've always treasured having time to myself. Most intelligent people, outcasts at school, unpopular, bereft of friends, find solace "in solitude, where we are least alone." We can be whomever we like, say whatever we choose, think whatever we will. Having time alone meant that I could see myself as what I wanted to be and what I could be instead of what society saw me as.
Transferring to Westchester did nothing to endear me to society. Turning into an enormous furry blue monster did even less--and had the added bonus of bestowing upon me considerable emotional and mental turmoil.
Far easier, then, to coop myself up in the laboratory like a mad scientist, finding reason and logic in chemical composition and nucleic acids, inuring myself to the whirling hideous fate that dictated my life. Easier to make light-hearted quips and witty repartee, all the while "hiving wisdom with each studious year."
And, you know, after a while I began to enjoy my life. I didn't live in that constant state of angst which some of our number have whittled to perfection; I found the excitement of battling supervillains, technoviruses, and philosophical conundrums more than enough fulfillment. I even had company in my sad lack of pulchritude, if I cared to include them--Quasimodo, the Phantom of the Opera, Beauty's Beast--and if I could relate to the unrequited love of the first two, why then, I could also relate to the magnificently requited love of the last.
"How sad and bad and mad it was! But then...how it was sweet!"
Do you think that Browning may have himself loved a woman like Trish Tilby? He must have, for his words to ring so true.
He must have given her his heart, his soul, his entire being; entrusted them to her holding as he had never done with any other. He must have seen her betray his trust and confidence and his whole damn people. He must have felt the sick vitriolic wrench of his stomach when he realized that she had a first and far truer love than he would ever be.
I loved Trish. I love her yet. And do you know why? It's not all as self-sacrificing and forgiving as it may seem, let me assure you. I'm no saint, just as Trish herself is none.
I love Trish Tilby because she had the decency, once, to love me back.
All the genius, the deductive logic and rational thinking in the world won't save you from the soft caress of a woman's fingers trailing down your cheek and the tremble in her whisper when she says that she wants to be with you forever..."the Devil hath not, in all his quiver's choice, An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice."
Even more humiliating than the fact that she sold out mutantkind for a scoop on the evening news, than having to justify her to my friends and colleagues, than having her treat me like a clumsy, overgrown child...even more than these barbs is the knowledge of how pathetic my feelings for her truly are.
I forgave her, as she knew I would. What choice do I have?
There's nobody else for me to spend my life with.
...It's rare that I allow myself the dubious luxury of depression. Generally, I despise it. Time that could be better spent, in my humble opinion. Unproductive self-torture. I've never developed as much of a taste for it as the others.
The meditation helps. Whenever I've got some downtime, a few moments spent quietly, blessedly, marvellously alone.
Don't think I'm not aware of the irony. There's precious little that I'm not aware of--one of the perks of being smart and perceptive.
There. I feel calmer now.
Deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Slow, slow, steady....
Into the emptiness of alpha.
See you on the other side.
"And hiving wisdom with each studious year." -- Childe Harold
"The Devil hath not, in all his quiver's choice,