The Visitor (1)

The Visitor

Once a tightly woven and condensed spectrum of secrets my mind now resembles a bubbling puddle of nightmares and ceaseless shadows. It is when those mud-bubbles burst that I am left gasping for air. They speak of love, trust then trust and love again. I feel them in my blood; I see their brightness in the veins of my wrist.

Now I dream a great deal but I don’t sleep so much. What follows and what you will hear from me is just how I see things. That is all. The truth is my life has never had any real structure. Well, apart from maybe when I was a child but I won’t go into that much. If I’m being honest, sometimes my mind has been known to linger and re-live crazy thoughts. In a way, I feel I should apologise for what may be a bit of a mess. If I repeat myself I can only apologise.

I have really tried to bring some order to what happened to me to the best of my ability. It’s not concrete, granted - but there are constant disruptions so it is hard to concentrate. It’s also that I just don’t want to have to explain everything that goes on in intricate detail, like how I ended up in here in the first place.
What I guess I am really driving at is a kind of request. If you don’t mind leaving me a little peace and a couple of secrets we will get on like a house on fire. So, I’m asking you really to take what you want from me but no more. I will give you what I can. I will give you as much of me as possible. I promise.

About me; I guess I think too fast and swear a lot. Too much to be thought of as cool but not enough to be thought insane. I always toyed with what decorum my person would carry as I grew older. This certainly wasn’t it. I had been the archetypal gentleman growing up - fantastic with women. They would be my princess and I would fulfil the dutiful role of English gent. I opened doors, gave up my seat, bought drinks, complimented, amused, made all the right gestures, shaved as not to impose my masculinity but always left enough stubble for any girl who so desired. I had all the mannerisms expected from me tied down into a terrifyingly precise Windsor knot. I hated that guy, but admired the women he brought into the house. It was probably worth being him for them.

That all changed. I am torn by something more than love. It is hard to explain. It is not obsession. It is not dependency. It is not love. I am sure. It is more. Yet I know I am nothing special. I am not so unique. I just can’t put my finger on it.