Daydreams Mid-Delusion
I don’t really know how you happened to me, exactly. There is nothing to look back on, not yet, as I’m waiting for such to run its course. Its not like I constructed purposeful barriers of brick to keep you out- on the contrary, almost. For the intrigue led to correctness, then mind-shattering mysteries to solve over any excuse we could come up with.
In a National Geographic article on the science of Love, I read that when one thinks of a person for more than four hours during a single day, then one is said to be a victim. Furthermore, such a symptom happens to run parallel to the mental inhibitor of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Now, I’m not saying I’m obsessed nor am I hinting at Love. I am, however, pointing out the extremities of which I wonder when wondering about how exactly you happened to me. And no, it is not the same thing…I don’t think.
It is merely coincidence that when I realized my morning coffee, or cream as it were, had gone cold due to neglect, it was because of a very vivid rip in reality. It seamed as if during the time it had taken my mug to return to its normal state that I had glimpsed a moment into my future. I saw you as an old man. I saw your checkered vest hang loosely from the covered wrinkled parts of your chest and you were not alone. To another, whose figure remains rather blurred, you didn’t speak so much as you gazed. It was really only your eyes I remember- they were exactly as they are now- that light brown extending to the depths of you, something you always try to hide as the corners of your sockets turn down slightly, a significance I haven’t been able to place yet.
As you were gazing, I could tell it was me you were thinking of. Head titled as if ready to rest on shoulder, you were remembering a life that was shared between us- one not absent of the anticipated pains, yet one holding stronger understanding and more comfortable and unbearable love than what some would call prevalent, or even necessary.
Refreshing my breakfast via steaming coffee pot I thought to call you. But hesitation got the better of me as I realized this story might mean, to those outside my mind, that I am ready for it. Would I have even thought it if I wasn’t?
I’m placing answers to be revealed through time, as trying to find them myself only makes me more confused. Because it still happens that I don’t know how you happened to me, exactly. I can not place a certain moment or thought- you just were. My chosen mechanism of defense melting as your personality was able to transcend everything I tried to hide, or make better about myself. You just were. Everything. Already there. The friend and poet and lover I see inside you is scaring me, knowing not even the science of brain neurons could formulate how we found each other.
If my heart wasn’t busily occupied with trying to repair itself, then I would already be needing air to be pumped back into lungs already filled with you. But the fact remains that it still bleeds at the touch, begging you to be gentle. Yet the fact also remains that when I was blessed with a moment to daydream, it was you-missing me- that I saw.
In a National Geographic article on the science of Love, I read that when one thinks of a person for more than four hours during a single day, then one is said to be a victim. Furthermore, such a symptom happens to run parallel to the mental inhibitor of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Now, I’m not saying I’m obsessed nor am I hinting at Love. I am, however, pointing out the extremities of which I wonder when wondering about how exactly you happened to me. And no, it is not the same thing…I don’t think.
It is merely coincidence that when I realized my morning coffee, or cream as it were, had gone cold due to neglect, it was because of a very vivid rip in reality. It seamed as if during the time it had taken my mug to return to its normal state that I had glimpsed a moment into my future. I saw you as an old man. I saw your checkered vest hang loosely from the covered wrinkled parts of your chest and you were not alone. To another, whose figure remains rather blurred, you didn’t speak so much as you gazed. It was really only your eyes I remember- they were exactly as they are now- that light brown extending to the depths of you, something you always try to hide as the corners of your sockets turn down slightly, a significance I haven’t been able to place yet.
As you were gazing, I could tell it was me you were thinking of. Head titled as if ready to rest on shoulder, you were remembering a life that was shared between us- one not absent of the anticipated pains, yet one holding stronger understanding and more comfortable and unbearable love than what some would call prevalent, or even necessary.
Refreshing my breakfast via steaming coffee pot I thought to call you. But hesitation got the better of me as I realized this story might mean, to those outside my mind, that I am ready for it. Would I have even thought it if I wasn’t?
I’m placing answers to be revealed through time, as trying to find them myself only makes me more confused. Because it still happens that I don’t know how you happened to me, exactly. I can not place a certain moment or thought- you just were. My chosen mechanism of defense melting as your personality was able to transcend everything I tried to hide, or make better about myself. You just were. Everything. Already there. The friend and poet and lover I see inside you is scaring me, knowing not even the science of brain neurons could formulate how we found each other.
If my heart wasn’t busily occupied with trying to repair itself, then I would already be needing air to be pumped back into lungs already filled with you. But the fact remains that it still bleeds at the touch, begging you to be gentle. Yet the fact also remains that when I was blessed with a moment to daydream, it was you-missing me- that I saw.