Every waking moment, every passing thought, it all winds back to her.
Her her her. Obsession reminds me of death a little, feels more alive than living, brings dream and waking life closer together --- but still reminds me of death. An end to change. My process, my ever mutating becoming-self interrupted, the chain of event that makes me in relationship to the world around me, its people and events, completely neutralized by the sound of her laugh. The ghost of her eyes.
She knows I exist, I'm pretty sure she loves me too, she's said as much. It's not an unrecquited love type of issue. It's not that I'm scared she'll go away - I don't think she will and even if she did I feel like I would keep on loving her to the day I died, as I did all the women-effigies I've loved before. Every time I love beyond the obsession, the latter has an expiration date that I both dread and await impatiently. So that I may be given back to my self. So that I may love unhindered by the fires of my peculiar brand of madness.
One where every waking moment, every passing thought, all winds back to her.
Her her her. Obsession is mostly being a broken record. I don't forget about anyone else either, I have enough love in me for many people. It's just that every taste, every sensation, every texture or shadow reminds me of her. A kiss from another lover? Her. Warm blankets and a herbal infusion? Her. My favorite music in the darkest night with nobody around to interrupt my trance-like appreciation for something that I associate with me and my own little world? Her.
At some point even the idea of her becomes lost in translation, through the prism of obsession even its subject will eventually dissolve into meaningless noise. And when that happens, and all that remains of me is that desperate need for more of Her, I've made myself unable to reach her, unable to be reached, utterly alone. Quietly dying. Not an angry, firey death, none of the bells and whistles of my usually demonstrative self-destruction. Lights out. No more thoughts to loop back to, just a quiet wistful nothing. At that point eating is already an afterthought, so is sleeping. There's just that feedback loop - Her, her, her, her, --- except it doesn't mean anything to do with Her anymore.
That's what scares me.
