Rejection. Deprivation of everyday love. Closing her eyes with tears streaming down her face, she felt her fingers numbing with pain. A pang of rejection that gripped at her. She shut her eyes to enter her life with him.
His face blossomed like the multifoliate rose. Smiles and laughter. She drank deeper into it. She thrust herself forward into the fantasy. His hands. She was desperate as a drowning woman. All around her, reality shrieked with its entirety dragging her legs back into its folds. She crawled forth towards that face. His face. Her only hope of escape. Of insanity. Her fingers numbing with stings from reality, she reached out. She stroked his hair with the dregs of energy she possessed. Yet love was erupting uncontrollably. It had begun as an innocuous streamlet and had turned into a flood submerging their lives. She held on to his face like the ship wrecked man holding on to a piece of splinter. It had stayed with her at nights when she saw life drained out of her. Even a minute of hazy violence was dangerous in her dreams. Even a moment of losing his face meant whip lashes from reality. She watched thin strands of red blood crawl up her fingers like needles of rain. She wished to whisper into his soul every ounce of love that weighed her down…and she did. In her dreams, the violence of reality came crumbling down. She laughed and held to his face tighter inside her lashes. She drew everything out of his face. She was greedy for more. His face meant the end of pain. His face meant the end of silence and loneliness. His face spoke in many many tongues. With his eyes he engraved a million hieroglyphics in her heart. His lips were icy cold like the frozen stillness of pain. His inanimate face invaded into her mindspace like the looming mountains or the sequoia. Its conspicuous presence was something she could not ignore. It ate into her, converting her into a foetus that was reborn from his existence.
She had allowed him to consume her. In one self-effacing moment that lasted for a millennium she had replaced her own consciousness for his. As her cells imbibed his spirit, she lost touch with her own exterior. She had become like a cryptic text for those who did not know him. Her stimuli had ceased to respond to the mannequins that walked about her. Her neurons had picked up one chemical that constituted chiefly of him. They grew tired sending unreciprocated signals towards his direction. They grew excited with the flashes of his appearance. Now they had made an indelible print of him for repeated use. Every curve in his face was at their immediate disposal. They substituted her cravings with that print and achieved the desired effect. Of intoxication. They secretly smiled at their success at deluding her. She had now begun to feel his touch. The psyche had effectively transmitted her earlier memories of touch to his image and now it was his touch. Sometimes she craved his voice. The neurons had noted this down on many occasions. Now they carefully dwelled on his voice and drenched themselves in its frequency and tones. They intently extracted every layer of his voice and secured them in big black boxes. Now when she craved, they produced elaborate conversations with his voice. This voice had grown so familiar in her mind, they almost thought it was her voice. They did this voice’s bidding. This voice bid them to grow euphoric and they did. Her whole being grew euphoric with his imaginary voice; his real voice had grown strange and distant. She had learned to wean herself off from his real voice.
In loneliness now, he spoke sweet words, kissed her and comforted her. Now why does love ask for sensuous gratification? She had never once seen him,her ears had heard his voice only transmitted by gadgets, his smell was unknown to her, his touch as imaginary as the rest of him,and his taste the least imaginable. Yet her love grew in leaps and bounds upon her. Her imagination painted an idealistic picture of him.
He was her best sculpture, her best song, her best portrait, her best perfume, her best creation. She had become the Pygmalion of yore once again. She had constructed him out of all her memories of men, their behaviour, their voices, their demeanour and their nature. She had also built him with her instincts about that one companion her soul craved for.
Yet he played his part to perfection where he featured in her life. He destroyed her imaginary creature at times. At times he shattered her dreams and brought her crashing down to reality. Now she had stopped making him out of her idealisms. Now she had begun making her idealisms out of him. The world called her insane. He found her dangerously deluded and obsessed with him. He could not help being him, and the more he was himself, the more she grew obsessed with this man.
She persistently accepted him because he was the epitome of her idealisms. The idealisms he managed to deconstruct, he had replaced with his own example,because she trusted his hatred. Thus she grew into a mere reflection of him. Her imagination of him was so accurate now because he was a superimposition in her and vice versa. It became a mirror,reflecting him in her, her in him, and it was such that one knew not the original from the reflection.
They had become one.