When brain activity ceases:

He hit her. His hand flat out against the side of her face. She wasn't allowed to do this. Not at all, was it even physically possible? Was this perhaps not real, like what he saw was not there, and what he thought simply invalid?
He bend open the fingers on his clenched fist, and stroke a finger on her cheek. The hand started shaking, a freezing wave rushed though him, he felt like crying again, but there was a vacuum in his stomach eating his tears, his thoughts, his very being.
It was real..
And he thought it again: She could not do this to him.
She could not fucking do this to him!
I don't deserve this, I didn't do anything wrong and this i not fair! I loved her!
Rushing through his head, this made every muscle tense. Made him raise his fist again.
He didn't hit this time, but laid his hand on his head.
Hate! That's what he felt for her now, looking into her eyes. She didn't even blink.
He really hated her, and another wave, another climax of these realized feelings rushed through him.
Still, he didn't scream it at her. He didn't say it to her. But he whispered, whispered something else.
I love you.
Two of his fingered closed her eyes, as a tear fell from his. How could she?
They where supposed to live the rest of their life togheter.
She where supposed to live..

More about religion:

Live a good life.
If there are gods, and they are just, then they will not care how devout you have been, but will welcome you based on the virtues you have lived by.
If there are gods, but unjust, then you should not want to worship them.
If there are no gods, then you will be gone, but will have lived a noble life that will live on in the memories of your loved ones.

- Marcus Aurelius

The Talk

He thought: If only I where a girl, it would have been easier; The world is somehow more open to girls wanting girls, than to boys wanting boys - even the words are better: Lesbians! Never, at least rarely used with hate. Gays! A word introduced to the generation as a curse word on the internet.

Still, as his mind was made up, he knew he had to tell his mother at this point. His very religious mother; The mother who once had been protesting against "fags" in the army, and often talked about old mrs. Gamboa down the street who had a homosexual grandchild, the poor soul.

She could break hell loose; She could break down; She could even physically attack him for all he knew.

Still, this needed to be done; He lived by himself with few friends, obviously did not have a girlfriend, and he had wanted to "come out" to colleges at work, and once even went to a so-called gaybar, but had realized he needed to open up to his last remaining family first; This was the only way to do this without any psychical wounds.

He wondered: Had he had this fear of telling her if not for her religious beliefs? Was the word of God - the words of middle-eastern philosophers and astronomers - so imprinted in her mind that it was stronger than herself? She was one of the nicest people he knew in oh so many other ways; He had idolized her after she donated money to homeless, volunteered the time the local elderly-home was understaffed, and once even traveled to Indonesia when there was a earthquake (not the overly media-covered tsunami, but one of the many other tragedies in these countries). None of these things because of, or connected to her religion though, contrary to what religious friends and neighbors bragged about, he had heard them use sentences like "the lovely christian lady down the street who helped out" and "God has put the spirit in her". It weren't fair. It was her spirit that should be complimented, not God's intervention on it.

He wanted to scream to them: Do you know how you're suppressing sexuality on me, on priest, and bishops; Do you know how you're suppressing truth, knowledge; How you are promoting blissful ignorance, an outer shell of polished stupidity - while the men speaking of your agenda, this inconsistent tale of miracles and divine laws, are raping little boys. It has even become a cliché!

He gathered his thoughts: Religion aside, he was here to break some big news to his mother, the "woman of his life" if you will, seeing as there would not be any others with that title. His mouth was dry, did he get some water first? Delays, procrastinations, dullness. He cleared his troath, thought: Fuck it, here goes:
"Uh, mom?"

His mother turned, smiled, shut off the tv they'd been watching, and looked at him. Said nothing.

He made a stuttering: A start without a continuum; A wish without a hope; And he lifted his gaze upwards as to not let the tears come to easy. Didn't he hope; Didn't he think: Hold me, it hurts when he noticed her coming closer?

She hugged him; The mother hugged her son.

And she said: "I know son. I know, and it's allright. I love you all the same"

This time, a mothers love for a son, was stronger than the love for a god.

This is religion.

This is religion.

& This is religion.

"The way that i love you isn't healty for neither of us, I think you should move out."

When she heard him say it, the words slipped by her as some unimportant nonsense he just thought out loud, and she turned around to him with a smile. He didn't smile back, and the words, still hanging in the air, sinked in. What he really meant, she never knew, she never bothered, and allthough he had been a perfect lover for half a year, and the former desire-based relationship had slowly begun evolving, that night she just left.

And he was glad she did.

He had about four of these relationships going, and had to end one of them. Maybe even one more. The second she was out the door, he got up and threw all that reminded of her, including the sheets, pillow, and a few dvd's they had pretended to watch sometimes. A kind of anger got over him, intense and suprisingly, and as he picked up his phone to call her back home to him, he ended up trowing it in the wall. Emotions had become a distant part of his life these last years, and the last spoken sentence was just a planed desicion, based on strategic thinking. But this feeling, the wave of anger, became sadness.

Øyeblikk

Jeg ser på deg, og du ser på meg.

Vi ser på hverandre.

Livet, realiteten, er uten spesialeffekter - jeg ser ikke, jeg bare føler, bølgene av følelser som krysser hverandre.

Jeg rekker likevel tenke: Øynene har i mange kulturer blitt ansett som vinduer til sjelen, og herrejesus i himmelen: Vinduet mitt står åpent, hengslene er av, hemningene er så vidt der enda, og når denne hendelsen er over..

var det kanskje ikke bare et sekund; Var det to?

..later jeg som ingenting.

Stille gleder jeg meg allerede til neste gang.

_______________________________

I look at you, and you look back at me.
We're gazing into each others eyes.
Life, reality, is without special effects; No VFX, or added contrast - I don't see, only feel, the waves of emotion crossing between us.
And i think: Eyes has in many cultures through history been considered to be window into the human soul, vision being the primary of senses, and the mind, thoughts, right behind it. Is my window not now unhinged, the glass shattered,  the content pouring out, and my every thought visible to this person looking straight into me?

When you again look away ...
was it a second? Was it a year?
... I stop holding my breath, pretend casual; And with my silenced cheer is already longing for it to happen again.

Finaly

When she began working at the hospital, she was afraid of getting to much responsebility. But now the tables where turned, and she became encreasingly frustrated along with the growing amount of stress this particular night had at hand. This night wasn't the first she'd experienced, but this time people she was able to take care of had to wait longer than necessary while she still had to assist. The choirs she was given, was sometimes riddiculous. She was even trained for operating open flesh wounds, and had courses in more severe wounds, but now she had to get towels and pills. She deserved more credit than this, and after finding the head doctor of tonight to confront him with these thoughts, her appetite for acknowledge was quenched.
She had to take care of operating hall 5. The place where people at medium risk was sendt. This was perhaps a bit more that she was going to ask for, but maybe she could use this oppertunety to show herself.
The hard studying of being a doctor to help those in great need of it, had not given the time to make many friends. And as the reason of making this choice of career was the death of both parents in a climbing-accident - of witch they now would have recovered if taken propper care of - she did not have anyone other than her much beloved, and therefore fat cat in her life. But now she was finaly employed here, and without any intentions of leaving soon, she feelt confident time would give her friends, and possibly other forms of close human contact. There hadn't been any form of depression in her along these long days, or longer nights, alone in the little appartment. But now the need of emotions for humans, both as separates and as a species, had to become more practical, and less theoretical.
Fifteen minuttes later, her joy of giving life to an old man was a long wanted feeling. The man had a great blood loss, but was luckily found by his daughter and grandson dropping by for a visit. The man had been lying a whole night alone, bleeding, and would not have managed another day without the propper care.
But he was saved. She had saved him, cleaned the wounds, stopped the bleeding, and given him adrenaline and blood enough for the wonderfull human body to fix itself over time, and regain perfection.