There is a number of rules I've accepted without saying a word or shaking a hand.

We, introverts with some sort of vague understanding going on between us, can pull that off. You know that, and I do, too.

The matter I'm proposing to solitarily discuss with you, my dear fellow, is in regards of our spatial understanding. We have both verbalized our very deep reverence for the introversion we both represent. Thus, we need a lot of space, undisturbed space, coupled with time, and a thousand other things, I'm sure.

In this matter I have to recap and remind myself how much hatred flares up in my heart whenever hassled to communicate. Or worse, meet. So I shall keep to my own code, and yours, in keeping your peace undisturbed.
For you have gone, my dear, you are gone in the big serenity you have presumably worked very hard for all these years. I want to believe that as I have found not-believing to be a hassle, too.

I sincerely hope you are having the time of your life, having blank walls surrounding you as a canvas-tent, where you can spill all those half-forgotten, marvellous ideas you couldn't ponder upon.
I hope the lack, the freshness of skin, the bodiless bed, the silence, the beauty is keeping you happy as ever.

Funny thing, to write all this pseudo-to-you, I had to quit every surface we have had any digital contact on before.
As if I need some extra commitment to actually not send this all to you, but keep it behind secure codes, barricades of encryptions and hidden beneath layers and layers of overloaded non-spider webs.
As if I need that.


Turns out, I really do. There is a little demon tickling my mind from the inside, urging me to misbehave, to break the pattern, to be the one changing, altering the usual. To prove I'm so new and so unique I will change all and be the hurricane I dream to be.
Funny, how misguided I get everytime I meet resistance. You have your own mind, filled with experiences and intuitions, and a lot, a marvellous lot of patterns already guided and shaped by specificity. I am literally nobody to go against any of that. And here, look at the daft soul, aching to go and rip up your peace and shake the ground around you, and take your fall with maddening catch-and-dance of a whirlwind.

The fact being, I'm barely even wintery Boreas. I'm pretty much a solid Zephyr, mild in temperature, harsh in sound at best, but generally caressing and whispering, nothing more. Whispering, that's a tricky tool, but being used by playful odd little me, it's rather harmless, if sometimes cool for all the testing. For the testing is required, of course, probing, checking, making you into a safe sort of matter I can handle and keep, until you bear it. Or I do, for sure.
Toys tend to get out from under my hands much earlier than I'm done with them, though.

You are nothing safe, are you, however? You are some silent little swirl in the ocean, oddly shaped and coloured enough for me to notice. Is it some colourfully lit fish you have borrowed the lights from? Maybe you are just manipulating the air flow within the ocean to make it look like you're dancing.

You are the apple not to be bitten, but chewed to the core.

Perhaps it's less childish. You could also be the stone, pretty, shiny, special, beating any gemstone in quality, never really noticed.
Whoever knows.

Me noticing you makes me lean towards the earlier version, as you are so obviously a rare little spot of light on this surface so taupe and cold and hard. To me, that is. You may still be trash and I just wouldn't know.

So much about my sharp intellect and cutting precision in perceiving.
And that is the single most mind-boggling factor of yours, not knowing what you really are, for triggering the time and the quality buttons that were so long forgotten, dusty, ground-coloured and all.

You stepped right onto them all and stand still, as if you haven't even noticed them under your feet. They must press, though. All those wishes and expectations pricking your feet at random. Or are they big enough for a cosy massage? Have you avoided stepping on the rest so the pattern would match the feet properly? So the experience would be nice, not dreadful and uncomfortable?

You may as well be that smart, see, I wouldn't know, I just assume. You have stepped on my sensors, you see.
Rather rude, but so new that I'm sort of fine with it altogether.

Your painting, if I could paint, would be the unknown Americas. You would be Thanatos, toyingly brawling with Hypnos in some heavenly corner. You would be the cure, the afterlife, emotions, and death.

You would be all the not understood, the misunderstood, the mystical. The unknown.

Simply because I don't know you, and maybe knowing you would make me throw up blood just as hard and heavy as with anyone else in my reserved little past. You and I will maybe never know.
Should we by any chance, I'd like to think that this mystical shroud of uncertainty hides a being so complex that the boundaries naturally slip off them, not by will or action. Not by past, present, or future. Not by space. Not by humans. Or their "ity".

It would be easier to just think you are the same as the rest, simply veiled in quality just yet. That I will see and tut and say, haha, he's matching the pattern so perfectly, and then cry a little inside and laugh a lot about it.
I am still here, suffocating against the overcoming wish to see you as something more, to believe that you could be more. In any quality. Just more wires in your head. More red in your kiss. Just a touch more delusion in your thoughts. A single whiff more chemicals clinging to your skin. Just a single sparkle more in your tired, awake eyes.

And people dare say I do not lower the bar. I mean, I don't, of course, it's been low long enough. It still is. A little more is just enough and perfect.
A fact, that this little more haven't been spotted in the last decade; but who's to say I'm to go rationally for the numbers and laws, and not for the fleeting, stupid, subjective, misguided, hormone-ridden, manipulated, conditioned little heart of mine instead.


What I really meant to tell you is that I hope you'll report of all those tests. The results. You know, for safe knowledge and childish bliss. Also, you'll report of the very specific emotion I have been capable of learning lately. I have shown you both.

I sort of want to show you these little insects, doomed from their hatching, morbidly enough, before they all end up in the intestinal tracts of a reptile daughter. Or another.

I would also ask if you have priorities in humans you choose. If you have a list, marked from top to bottom. If it would matter, should one exist.

I would also ask if you are spooked by closeness or the solemnity of intimacy. I would watch closely for signs of hurt feelings and their degree. I would judge if it was cutting too deep for being truth, or being annoying for irrelevance. I would watch you wonder. I'd also watch you babble a response, ready-made; and pull a few holes through it to make you cut yourself open, or sew yourself shut. I would toy with you and get hurt in my heart for doing so. I'd be tender for any retaliation. I'd break and be more honest and exact than I ever am.

Let me get another glass for this bubbly pond of despair I've built here in creation.

There, the water feels so much warmer after a dip into cold reality. You must know the feeling, being woken up from a line of thought so scattered, so chaotic, yet precise. It is a terrible thing.

Yet I wanted to finish off abruptly, as if hardly with any care, with that one last lie, stating I can indeed take your being as something off-hand, something hardly relevant, something vaguely entertaining at best. A person of misty interest. Just an another option. Yet another pawn on the board to fail to reach to make the king bow. I also wanted to lie in saying I am the king to be bowed to.

And yet, the last thoughts are still bells ringing among a world blurred by conversation more inspiring than existence, a pulse that rings clear and hollow and far away, yet so close to my ears.

I had a big problem with pedestals, and the beings placed on them.

Please don't fall.

Or don't join them.

(I'm quite convinced Lucifer would urge you for the same, as it is a terrible fall and all you'll want to do in the end, is to manipulate and own, and as I gather, you tend to err on the side of brutal honesty and sharing instead.)

Mind you, still sins, but less verbal sins, apparently.

If you opt for chatting again, I might tell you, while walking into a tree or a lamppost, what my vices are called.

Until then,
Zephyr

(artwork produced by boing-boing)