"Sweet Pain", Cyrano, & Me

They say art imitates life, although there are times when the imitation is not noticed until after we have seen the connection flow the other direction. Occasionally, life will unfold before our eyes, and only after the fact will we realize there was a song echoing in our heads that told the story before we lived it. The human experience might be individual, but it is also shared, and the arts have borne that out as fact more times than we would like to count.

I had not read the story of Cyrano De Bergerac as a young man. Literary history was not a thread I explored with any fervor, beyond what had been required. I could recite the first few lines of Hamlet's soliloquy, and I was intrigued by the energetic fervor of Kerouac's writing, but the stories of the past did not feel vital and relevant to life at the turn of the millennium.

I was listening to Blues Traveler, though, and I knew the first line of "Sweet Pain" made reference to Cyrano. As it was on a record I had trouble grasping, and there were more immediate options for me to dive into, it was a song that slipped through my consciousness for many years. Looking back, I would say it was a benefit, as knowing the way the story plays out would not have been helpful to my experience.

In college, I was put in the position of Cyrano. A friend relied on me to help him navigate the contours of his relationship, while another needed help organizing his thoughts into phrases that would not scare away the objects of his affection. In both cases, I was massaging words to help other people live out things I had no experience with. These people had never seen me 'with' another person, and they hadn't heard me talk of such things, and yet they considered me their best option to find ways of expressing love, lust, and passion. This is where I would include a joke about the failures of the education system, but it seems too obvious, doesn't it?

Cyrano lived a life of pain, wanting desperately to love, but being cursed to be seen as a monster by those whose affection he wanted.

"And when beauty kind and full of grace
Again denied the beast her hand
The beast he turned and hid his face
And tried with all his might and magic to understand"

I spent many nights sitting up, listening to the crushing melancholy of Opeth, trying to understand those very same realities. I was not without drives and passions, but less so a monster I was a ghost, an invisibility floating in the background who could only be seen when no better option was available. Or perhaps it was only when the drink and drugs has fully broken down their inhibitions, and then the barrier between good taste and me was thin enough for my visage to bleed through.

"What did them in? Not suicide
Just a lengthy friendship and a dream of how it could be
And isn't it a crime?
Was it more than they could bear?
You know they did not even care
At all and they might have something there
But I'm here and I don't see where
All I hear is their silent prayer"

Being the option of last resort does not hurt because you are at the bottom of the pile, but rather that you are kept in the pile at all. These friends who could be more have the ability to let us go, to set us free from the heartstrings binding us to hope, but they know it works to their advantage to keep us on the hook... just in case. In my example, the cord severed when the alcohol burned through it, and I learned that all of this rationalizing and philosophizing is a long-winded way of trying to make the same pain hurt in two different ways, so I could at least claim the bruises were fresh.

"In no position to give advice
My heart, it spoke and I wrote it down
And you know every wisdom has its price
My head up in the stars
And my feet planted firmly on the ground
When will I embrace this life I see?"

I wrote many words, not so much for them, but for myself. I was learning what passion was, learning who I was, and trying to figure out how any of the pieces fit together. What emerged was a poet who had insight into life from the very fact I had never lived it. I observed, I saw the mistakes others made, and I became aware of what being a good and loving person would entail. Not that I would be able to pull off such a feat, but through my words I could pretend to be the person I wanted to be.

Understanding why people came to me for advice still made no sense, as they had no idea what was going on in my head. I tried my best to point them in the right direction, but things fell apart regardless. I felt their blame, even though it was their own fault for putting their trust in someone who clearly deserved none of it. If I could not win someone over with my own feelings, I certainly couldn't speak so eloquently to achieve success for someone else.

Eventually, I would happen upon someone who appreciated my words, even if they would always be a one-way correspondence. The shadows would remain the best place to stand, because it was there I could hide the disappointment I could not wipe from my face. I could claim to be happy for people's happiness, I could tell them I was going to be okay, and perhaps they wouldn't notice every metaphor was hiding a bitter code inside.

"Sweet pain
Is sometimes what you need
Sweet pain
It allows the blood to bleed
Sweet pain
From the moment of your birth
Sweet pain
You know it keeps you here on Earth"

In a perverse twist of fate, that pain has been necessary. If I hadn't been in those positions, if I hadn't felt the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, I don't think I would have been any happier. The pain is a reminder that I once had hope, that I once believed in a better future. I'm not sure if I do anymore, which comes with the realization I haven't felt hurt in years. I have remained numb, which is the worst feeling one can have. That numbness is a resignation, a fire's dead embers, an emptiness that cannot be filled.

As much as being Cyrano hurts, there is sweetness in the pain. Blood alone is an acrid taste to have on my tongue.

Like I said, it was probably a good thing I wasn't thinking about all of this at the time. "Sweet Pain" might have hurt too much then, before the numbness set in.