Infatuation: A trick? Or a treat?
I don't care if you like to read, but I like to write. I'm trapped in a universe of which sound is only a reverberation of the things that could have been, and sight is only a figment of the imagination where your dreams are right there, but never come true. The world is spinning, and I'm stuck walking in the opposite rotation. The ground is shaking, but it feels no different than the nights I sit up in bed trembling in fear of all the things that haunt my restless nights. Gravity has stolen my backbone, Balance has stolen my stability, and the cold concrete floor my face now lay upon has stolen my sense of right mind. Infatuation is a strange thing. A bony creature thin with feeding on itself. It is addicted not to its subject, but to its own vain hunger And needs but a pretty face to fuel its rampant imagination. It's humid couch and sweaty palms. It's fleshy carpets ablaze with conquest. But when conquering is complete, the blood leaves its limbs and it becomes disenchanted. Disappointed even to the point of disgust with its subject, who sits then, like a hollow trunk, emptied of its precious cargo and left to fade like defeated naval ships. A seed relieved of its transparent husk, to dissolve finally on a rough and impatient tongue. Infatuation is a tricky thing. Swollen with adoration...I've never known a path to descend so quickly.