Forgotten Stimuli

I remember that I used to be madly in love. Self-effacing love. And you were too. Those were the times when we were still young and untainted by cynicism. The music we listened to at that time is now an anachronistic reminder. We were in love…. and uncertainty.

We were so close. I don’t remember being that close to anybody. I could hear your thoughts and feel your touch in my sleep. I was completely yours. At that time, I did not have the slightest interest in other men. You were my everything. The uncertainty killed it for us. All this is history. We both have our own understanding of what it was, what it is and why it is what it is.

Yet, I have to speak to you about jealousy. I hurt myself so much on account of you. I just cannot imagine someone else sharing your heart. I completely believe(d) it is mine. I wanted to possess it. It was my treasure. To be part of that amazing Aleph-like mind… to be one fleeting image in that mirror of your mind; to be sharing space with all the theories, mathematics, poetry, philosophy, logic, music, people and ideas in your mind… it was utter flattery… it was the biggest turn-on of my life…. it still is.

And to imagine there would be someone who will push me to the background… someone who will completely envelope what once belonged to me, is impossible to accept. I learned to move on. I used cynicism, hatred, self-love, distractions, philosophy, and all possible devices to get over your influence on me. I don’t know how deep I was into you. It was an endless abyss. And I was loving every moment of the suffocation and the pain. I wanted to be yours. Completely. I painted mental pictures of us together. Vivid. Huge monstrous images that will fill the wall of a skyscraper. You and me. (I used to say “We”)

I learned to understand that I have some irrevocable issues concerning my physiology. I only need to go for a body transplant. It hurt. Like hell. Still does. And I buried you. Only with dry leaves and things that I could slightly displace to see your countenance again. I would never bury you completely. It will mean my own death.

This cataclysmic fire of jealousy engulfs me. It is a feeling of exclusion and rejection. A sudden irksome shock. Sometimes it lasts for days; steals sleep. Why not me? Why not me? Why not me? Why not me? Why not me? Why not me?

Self-love. What else?

This same self-love overcomes it. Produces grand theories about the vastness of life. Of the availability of more genes. Better genes. It harangues about martyrdom and victimization and the need for liberation. It sweeps loneliness away with the interpretation of solitude. Constructive solitude. “I too have things to do. People who like me.” Self-love speaks many lies. Constructs beautiful facades for you. Reminds you of past achievements. Paints illusions of me still being your object of love. Self-love saves me.

Yet, I need to tell you how I am manipulated into your fetters unconsciously, by my own conniving mind. I let myself walk into those forbidden paths where souvenirs from our past lie scattered. Some intact. Some broken. Some disappeared without a trace. Some still sprouting. And I once again fall. Fall into you. Willingly fall with a trusting soul. After all, you’re my home.

After these several hundred hours of ranting, let me put on my cynical mask and laugh at myself for having spattered this page with squiggly characters that you will interpret the way I intended you to. Language connects us. Yet, beyond the encryption and decryption of several thousand languages and silences, lies an emptiness. I cannot interpret it. Yet I can see it…and it has you.

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