She has a life out there and
gives appearances. She even forgets herself towards the fill of it all. But when the nights alone come, and now they do come often, who
or what else is there that is the stuff of intimacy? Easy with that whisper of dialogue but who
else to the rescue for trust sake? It is that part of her that cannot leave.
Anger at that inner voice, long ago abandoned. Sure, doubt about her sanity includes
that voice but not in an accusitive manner. She never parts from its
recollection, never to challenge its appointment, never to replace it with
anything. Everything that is noticed, presumably joy’s final resting place,
even frustration’s constant bond, comes back to her as that voice, to tell her
what she needs to do. “I will always be telling you what you hear. Challenge me
and your aloneness will be overwhelming. Separate from me and your confidence
will fade. Take me truly into your arms and contentment may come your way.
Together, we can philosophize your existence. Our conversation will always be
on cruise. Only in the end, will you discover what a shill I have been. A
wallpaper, for walls that never were your lessons, will go unsolved but your
vanity will be served. Who of you is there to challenge my perusal? Will you
take me as your lover? Our confinement deems it so. No matter how close you
come to life, my common sense will first apply. Fate may play with you from
time to time but you come home to me, no matter. When we are together, only
rest will happen when we are finally one . . .” She took her mind as her lover.
What else was there for her to do?
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