If I love you volcanic lava deep and lunar crater high, chances are phenomenally bright that I’m the mildly confident, broadly indifferent person in front of you.
I lose sight, not the vision because that’s well in me but, the concoction which skims the evil of you. For example, your negligence towards me doesn’t ring a bell to bail you from my life but shrieks as a challenge: Am I a quitter? That too so early? Shouldn’t I just submerge myself in these flurry of emotions once more because it’s going to be worth the ordeal, like in dreamy novels and movies of paradise, at the end of it all and just drop another “subtle” hint?
I know you’re poison but I’m the crane necked peacock. I choose to consume you, my soul food.
You crawl in my sleep and wonder through me into creeks that are like veins carrying blood to heart.
Since you barely spare the time to see me through in reality, all I can say is I like the idea of YOU. I might not really know, how loud you cuss when deprived of something precious or the way you handle failure. Do you live for your dreams or your daily bread? Would you like to possess me/whosoever you fall for or will you just walk together, hand-in-hand?
I need to know all this and more because I’m the old school that immatures are terrified of. To me, your virtues matter more than the idea I’ve of you.
See, I told you: The vision is well in me. I know vaguely what I want from life and from you but I lose sight in your presence. I can’t see through the opaque demons in you. And I’m full from all your venoms and more yet never satisfied enough to not see you around me and not go crazy like: Yes! You’re here. So close that I can smell your breath and watch you play with spoons and scissors. Close enough to kind of decipher your phonic conversations with each caller that rings your phone. And then, suddenly far far away when you get up and bid goodbye!
And I might never be able to rationalise that what can be captivating, pulling, magnetic about a spectacled young man with tiny, wooly hair, bordering the forehead at awkward angles. Ears that are a size of the mankind, teeth exactly the opposite and nose, as short and fat as possible.
Okay! To all those guessing a benevolent heart and an even bigger emotion from him; let me break the ice.
He isn’t the one who shows rudimentary concerns about whether you’d food or not. Barely ever takes the initiative to call/text/ meet in person and is stone hearted to hear you melt if that’s what his mood dictates.
Everything about this guy is downright shrewd except for the moments in which you decide to withdraw your existence away from him permanently. Miraculously, then he blossoms into an ocean with smooth lined shores. He’ll tell you then he’ll sail through cyclones when you least expect him to cross over puddles for you.
And there you’re, with exfoliating skin that lays bare your naked soul which exists in locomotion. And she sits. She slips. She stands and she stumbles often. Into dreams that are visions and visions which are befuddled, sly, silly and shy.
Shy because they’ll be laughed at hysterically when confessed. Silly because dreams are just dreams, a light year apart from reality. Sly because somehow they have a way with destiny and befuddled because a fortune making destiny rarely knocks in, at the door of a lousy man.
So I boot up and walk straight into him and finally say it, “I…i..i.. love ummm… traveling”.