I wonder whether Mr Lost has his own old chest, containing his soul, up in the dusty attic. If so, how does he deal with it? Does he look into it briefly, then shut the lid down quickly? Does he jump into it for a while, relishing what he finds and owning the contents only temporarily?
During that short ownership, the danger is to be felled by one’s own vulnerability. Once the contents overwhelm and captivate us, regaining control is hard; the temptation may well be to abdicate responsibility to the other person, the one who makes us feel special and cherished beyond belief: the person who could open the chest with us and genuinely marvel at the contents.
‘I want you. Watch me fall apart.’
There is something so desperately fragile and romantic about this sentence that draws me in and makes me feel like I want to protect the contents of his chest. I don’t wish to be his downfall and I am not sure I’d have that power. I only want to turn him from Mr Lost to Mr Found. And as much as I may be special to Mr Lost, he is still CHOOSING to make me special. Responsibility should be shared equally and yet I am not sure it will.
Besides, the doom inside the message is hard to miss.
Do we need to fall apart? Do we need to be more Lost than we ever were? Are we really doomed to appreciate the contents of each other’s chest temporarily, only to shut the lids down with a heavy thud?
Much as I long to be had and taken as we did for a fleeting, stolen moment, the power that holds us together goes beyond sexual intimacy. If we are both hurtling down towards the burning flame, doomed to fall apart, one of us will have to pull out.
It will not be me. I am too far gone, and I can't run away.
