Oh, my lover, you phantom of fiction!
I conjure you from image; in flesh and blood you are upon me in a kiss of a dream. Cool lips of smoke ghosting my cheeks with promise of tenderness and passion. Like a starved man hallucinating, I see you – so real and alive, with the words I desire to hear. And then I wake and you are gone. Smoke pulled out through the open window. A sigh from nowhere left in its wake. A dull ache thudding in my chest of something that was never there, never real. I am numb and desperate. Eager to love and be loved. I conjure you again and again, you faceless creature. Spark the sensations you would bring me if you were real. Only the imprint of your eyes I see in my mind, looking at me with fire and fascination, your gaze blazing from far beyond and nowhere. Nowhere. And yet so near. Only here, in me, with me.
You are not there when I face the world, you coward. Not to save me but to accompany me. That is what I long for. And yet, you console me so tenderly in private. Always there in my quiet moments when no one’s eyes are upon me; yours alone see me. Only … I will it so.
And that is the tragedy, indeed.
I rejoice in your company, but it is a brief joy; a ghost of a joy and a warmth I know nothing of. A breath remains but it is cold and ethereal. Yes, I rejoice and I fear that you will never leave me. That your ghost of a dream will accompany me forever. Haunt me forever. That I will always find solace with your spirit and yet never be satisfied as long as you are there. You are so ethereal that I do not believe you can be anywhere but within. That I will never truly see your face. And if I do – in such a far-off dream that I retaliate against its existence or becoming – I fear that I will fall and fall and disappear, never to return. Either that or I will truly become a whole human being who has known and lived through pain and pleasure like so many else.
Dare I discover you?
But then, sometimes I wonder if I too am made of the ghosted material you are; of dreams, shadows and concepts; longed for by someone but not to be discovered or grasped.
I cannot will it.
Luck seems to have been on my side throughout my life except for this. Only this. I can seek and roam this earth for your spirit’s embodiment for all eternity and stumble across parts of you, yet never be satisfied, only more numb and desperate in my search, so that I, in the process, forget to live.
But do I live now? Life gives no answers besides itself. Death the only certainty, but I am not ready to meet Death yet.
Is this the thirst for life that is so talked about? In that case, I am parched; the only water given through fata morganas. They are lucky – those who find the oasis of life in the desert world. I try to follow their tracks yet the wind wipes away the signs before I’ve reached a destination.
It seems that will forever be my course in life.