March 16th, Year of Silence

Some people, mostly those that I knew as romantic partners, go on to become larger than they were when I knew them well. In looped memory, they are great masters, or gruesome beasts. Admittedly, few are elevated. Still, they all lose their humanity. Their transformation occurs just as soon as I call an end to our relationship, which may happen before it is formalized through verbal expression. The alchemical mind, it seems, has a way of making of all men a myth.

I think about Robert more often than I care to admit. It is almost as if my mind is hexed, or programmed to do nothing else. While I drink tea, he comes in to sit with me. We talk about nothing and everything, just as always. I open up a book, and there he sits, strumming his guitar. I walk my beautiful Ruey, and he struggles to keep pace. I lie down to sleep, and I feel his warm breath on my neck. I try to remind myself that he was only a glitch.

Obsession quickly causes me to turn against the person I think about, as if they were at fault for the shrine my mind has built for them. My brain is a medieval torture device. It is a misunderstood machine, a loyal follower of all things foolish. Aphrodite in the midst of a manic episode.

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March 16th, Year of Silence

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