Topological Map Of The Brain
I wanted it to be me.
I remember the shape of you when I thought it. Appropriately, you were looking away, and I thought it. It burned into my mind as I lazily devoured your skin with my eyes. Rending synapses to cinders, I don't want anyone else ever again. And, a week later, I left you. Some would name that madness, but I call it clairvoyance. I knew what would happen, and I challenge any who would claim that my prediction had even the slightest margin of falsehood now.
I wanted it to be me.
I saw you and you were more radiant than I remembered. You told me you were happy, and that you hadn't really been before. That our time together had been characterised by madness, that the high times were nothing more than chemical imbalance. I'm glad it didn't register at the time that it was, in fact, the second time someone had told me that they had considered themselves unfit to reason while with me. Because, I think, simply, it may have driven me mad. I asked to hold you, and you said we shouldn't. You were right.
I wanted it to be me.
I felt his eyes upon me, his nervousness. I even wrote about it later, it seemed only just. It was my little revenge. Should he have you, he shall at least know, and fear, how much you meant to me. A little, horrible victory, worth nothing but bitterness, but it was something. I tried so hard to be courteous, and I was, but I couldn't fulfil that promise of friendship. Your absence, it wears at me, but softly, like the sea. The sea does not undo the shore, it merely shapes it, and eventually the shore forgets that it is so defined by water. But your presence, I can't, I just can't.
I wanted it to be me.
I saw you once since, and you weren't alone. It was awkward, a little, but I played the gentleman because I cannot willingly do you ill. You hugged me, and I think you said that you loved me still in the gesture, in a strange, apologetic way. I'm not sure you were fully present; you were very sick. I let you go, and I forget if I wept when I got home.
I wanted it to be me.
I was so very upset by an Opera recently, which Tchaikovsky original called "lyrical scenes." There was so little drama, so earthly and un-epic; it was bereft of heroes and villains and tragedy erupted from simple errors of judgement. It was so very sad, and the main character was so frighteningly close to myself at points that it felt like the moments presented crawled right off the stage and under my skin. I'd like to think myself different, I'd like to think myself possessed of a more mythic character. I want renaissance in my countenance and vocations. But this, this simple tale of a man who begins broken and ends moreso, it unnerved me. And you, I fear you have wrought me into this person who first walks onto Pushkin's pages. Or, perhaps, more that through you I wrought myself into him.
I wanted it to be me, but now I am content in every other way.
There is nothing to be done and there never was.
Written On: Home Computer