My breath is inside you
A love letter to the lyrics of In Every Dream Home A Heartache by Roxy Music
A man sits in his home, surveying the grandeur of his surroundings. He is alone, or so anyone would think if they could see him. But no one can. Nor can they judge him. He is safe here, in his cocoon. Detached, separated by a wall of privilege from the world outside. Screened off from envious, prying eyes.
But he still can’t hide from himself.
The man is doing well, by anyone’s standards. Times are good generally, but for him especially money isn’t a problem. His home is immaculate. It could be a small town apartment, a cottage, a penthouse. It doesn’t matter. It’s probably wherever you want to live. You’ve imagined yourself living there. The finish, from push bell to faucet, is to die for. Sumptuous, plush, precise — the finest fittings. The man who lives here is decadent, worry free. You can’t really believe that people live like this.
And they don’t, not really.
It’s not what you’d call living anyway. It’s more like life, avoided. If he can, he’ll put off coming home before bedtime. Dinner, drinks, anything to stave off the inevitable. But he can’t put that off forever. Besides, people are unpredictable. Intimidating. Here at least he is in control.
Once home, though, the long evenings are measured in refills. The drink keeps the fear away. He needs music too, otherwise the accusing emptiness threatens to engulf him. Open plan leaves you nowhere to hide. Instead, the things he has surrounded himself with distract him. The carpet, the designer furniture, the latest gadgets — safe houses for his wandering mind. Expensive security blankets. What seem like luxuries to everyone else are to him essential. Home comforts, indeed.
But today, for once, the pain isn’t there. The sense of isolation has been assuaged. Something arrived in the post today. Someone, actually. Someone into whom he can breathe life. A perfect companion. His role is to serve her.
But he is still alone.
Her arrival was inauspicious. He’d never met her, yet he’d paid willingly. His plain wrapper baby, to be indulged endlessly. She can enjoy what he can’t — the trappings of his dislocated life. She floats in his new pool, and from here her skin is sensuous, smooth, shining. Earlier, she was dressed in a new outfit he’d bought especially. Tomorrow, he has more new clothes for her. He wants to dress her up daily. Create a new woman every day.
She is uniquely her, yet all his.
Out of his league, really. Deluxe and delightful. She makes him happy, and he hope he makes her happy too. He is part of her, after all. When she’s at her most alive, he knows that’s down to him. That feels good.
The instructions said not to expect her to last. As if she were some disposable darling. But dumping her seems inconceivable. Not after tonight. Sure, he blew her up, but then she blew his mind. That was more connection than he’d felt in years. How could he do that to her, to them? How could he throw all of that, and her, away?
Anyway, she can’t die. She was never born.
On the other side of his wall, the other side of privilege, people outside must wonder. They must imagine, how does a man with all that money use all that space? What goes on? What to do there?
They have no idea.
Each night with her, he feels, takes him one step further from heaven. That is, if heaven exists. He certainly hopes so. He needs the promise of something at the end of all this. If only people knew. It’s not their envy he wants. He needs their pity. He wants them to pray for him.
Oh those dream home heartaches.
