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Something Lame
Randomly decided to post random Baileyness that will never be finished because I need to acquire meaningful/usable quotes from the other tenants, and I already lost the perfect one from Dominick at some point. Also I don't really like it... But it has some good individual lines, I think.
He can imagine what it feels like to be passionately in love, and that more than anything, he believes, is proof of collective memory. He has never been passionately in love, or in love of any sort; he has been in relationships, and really, while they were great to be in and comforting somehow, they weren't terribly interesting. He doesn't feel driven to have sex, or relationships. He sometimes has both, but it is really of no particular interest to him if he never has either of them again.
"I hope we all have patience," said Dominick, almost disinterested. ????
"Tell me what your type is," said Leopold. "You can't just leave me wondering." He always had a question, like he wanted to know everything, see right through skin and flesh and bone to find what he wanted to see on the inside.
"You don't seem like the type," said Adrien. "Too private." The word was somehow intimate when he said it, with dark promises in his eyes and an invitation in his voice shrouded by layers of casualness. Perhaps he didn't even know he was making it.
"????
"I'm here because I want to be," said Andrew. "Because I want to find someone who can be more than a friend this time." There was wistfulness about him, like a pull, like a promise. Find me. Make it real.
When he has relationships, they are wonderful. Relationships are comforting and reassuring, allowing him finally to relax, to give himself to another and trust someone. He never trusts anyone. He is too smart to trust anyone. But when he is with another he can dare to hope that perhaps in some small way he is indeed part of the human race, if only in wanting to be needed, and wanting to need others. He has never needed anyone, but he doesn't mind; the relationships give him that hope deep within some primal place inside himself, even though he has never once believed for an instant that he loves his partner.
When he has sex, that too is wonderful. He can submerge himself in the roaring fervent urgency and become someone else, something else. In that moment he can abandon reason and just feel and writhe and need, and make his lover burn and beg and clutch at him, and then uplifting, building on pleasure until he gets too high to know anything else in the world. In his subconscious mind he longs to be wanted but he knows that really, when the moment passes he will be left in a vaguely unclean world with a partner he has known all along he can't love.
Bailey suspects he loves his computer. The computer is rational, dictated by numbers operating in a predictable and explicable fashion. It offers him no false hopes and urges him to make no false promises. He has loved it from the beginning, unconditional, long before his fingers had touched its keys. Perhaps he does not have the capacity to love a person that way: not when people are so unpredictable, and changeable. They come surrounded with a buffer of kindly self-deluding lies, and they convince themselves that they need things that Bailey knows no one really needs, all the while ignoring things that are truly important.
He is not really the sort of person that others fall passionately in love with. He comes with too many strings attached, too many uncertainties; few know what he is really thinking, and fewer care to ask. He is, he has to admit to himself, something of a fixer-upper. Who has the ability to repair a broken computer man? Who among them has the desire to?
Safer, really, to love his computer. That way no one needs to bother with him, and he needs to bother with other people only as far as he volunteers to, and everybody is happy. Besides, he does not understand people or how to make them happy, nor passionate love and how to acquire it. He understands his love of binary and coding and microchip processors, and understands their demands on him. That is a very pure, very simple sort of love.
But that is not what he imagines, sometimes very late at night when he wakes from dreams he can never remember. That, he thinks, is what it must feel like to be passionately in love.
It is only a memory.
He can imagine what it feels like to be passionately in love, and that more than anything, he believes, is proof of collective memory. He has never been passionately in love, or in love of any sort; he has been in relationships, and really, while they were great to be in and comforting somehow, they weren't terribly interesting. He doesn't feel driven to have sex, or relationships. He sometimes has both, but it is really of no particular interest to him if he never has either of them again.
"I hope we all have patience," said Dominick, almost disinterested. ????
"Tell me what your type is," said Leopold. "You can't just leave me wondering." He always had a question, like he wanted to know everything, see right through skin and flesh and bone to find what he wanted to see on the inside.
"You don't seem like the type," said Adrien. "Too private." The word was somehow intimate when he said it, with dark promises in his eyes and an invitation in his voice shrouded by layers of casualness. Perhaps he didn't even know he was making it.
"????
"I'm here because I want to be," said Andrew. "Because I want to find someone who can be more than a friend this time." There was wistfulness about him, like a pull, like a promise. Find me. Make it real.
When he has relationships, they are wonderful. Relationships are comforting and reassuring, allowing him finally to relax, to give himself to another and trust someone. He never trusts anyone. He is too smart to trust anyone. But when he is with another he can dare to hope that perhaps in some small way he is indeed part of the human race, if only in wanting to be needed, and wanting to need others. He has never needed anyone, but he doesn't mind; the relationships give him that hope deep within some primal place inside himself, even though he has never once believed for an instant that he loves his partner.
When he has sex, that too is wonderful. He can submerge himself in the roaring fervent urgency and become someone else, something else. In that moment he can abandon reason and just feel and writhe and need, and make his lover burn and beg and clutch at him, and then uplifting, building on pleasure until he gets too high to know anything else in the world. In his subconscious mind he longs to be wanted but he knows that really, when the moment passes he will be left in a vaguely unclean world with a partner he has known all along he can't love.
Bailey suspects he loves his computer. The computer is rational, dictated by numbers operating in a predictable and explicable fashion. It offers him no false hopes and urges him to make no false promises. He has loved it from the beginning, unconditional, long before his fingers had touched its keys. Perhaps he does not have the capacity to love a person that way: not when people are so unpredictable, and changeable. They come surrounded with a buffer of kindly self-deluding lies, and they convince themselves that they need things that Bailey knows no one really needs, all the while ignoring things that are truly important.
He is not really the sort of person that others fall passionately in love with. He comes with too many strings attached, too many uncertainties; few know what he is really thinking, and fewer care to ask. He is, he has to admit to himself, something of a fixer-upper. Who has the ability to repair a broken computer man? Who among them has the desire to?
Safer, really, to love his computer. That way no one needs to bother with him, and he needs to bother with other people only as far as he volunteers to, and everybody is happy. Besides, he does not understand people or how to make them happy, nor passionate love and how to acquire it. He understands his love of binary and coding and microchip processors, and understands their demands on him. That is a very pure, very simple sort of love.
But that is not what he imagines, sometimes very late at night when he wakes from dreams he can never remember. That, he thinks, is what it must feel like to be passionately in love.
It is only a memory.
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Leo will make you sorry you wrote this, you realize. ^^; Bailey's description of him is a little painful in its truth. But while he is looking for something he wants to see, he also truly believes it's there. He believes Bailey could have Something with someone, maybe not what most people would call love, but a Bailey equivalent.
That's what he likes about Bailey, really: he doesn't fit into any categories. He seems so rational and self-contained. On the one hand, Leo finds that exotic, at once unfathomable and oddly comforting. On the other hand, he guesses that Bailey thinks things like this, and he wonders just how deep the loneliness is.
Um. I = your fangirl. *runs away*