The Way An Adolescent Boy Falls Into Romantic Love And Believes Women Are Mystical Items For His Own Self-Transformation

Me, I and only I, in all my dusk-ridden dreams descending, I wait for the crowded, misty-marked figure of a woman to lead me into the becoming of myself; to see once again the dense cusp of haze leading down over heavenly fields and angel-cast trees watching from light-spangled darkness. I remember in teenage years imagining that figure, woman, insubstantial spectre walk me away and into the fog of fantasy, and larger, never into the world of the adult.

And further on is the haunting; unnumbered quantums of time where through the roofs and through the windows of even the tightest bedrooms would seep the calculable dust of female lies cascading, the indiscreet murmurings astir in the tickling rustles of leaves outside, the evanescent briefing that you have lost control, the symbols cascade against you, and all in every nightbed swarming, in undiluted dreams thwarting, in early morning sweat forming, she is the thing that seized you.

The bedroom is the loneliest place in the world. It is where public and private collide, where image greets reality, and where we confront what we believe to be our true selves.

Even the most dreamless places are dreamed of by the boy in love, even the emptiest symbols become full of fantasy, even the loneliest of minds are visited by ghosts. Every day becomes an evening, and every night becomes a morning, and with every passing day you wake up a little bit more selfish, and a little bit closer to an end; every dawn is like the breaking of a wound that bleeds afresh; every sad pointlessness is thrown out like the tapping of a tear on your cheek.

And more and more like this – this is the teenage boy’s fantasy, the gorgeous chaos to which he throws himself –

And all in all I’m waiting –

Where eyes dance upon her movements like a cork upon the tide; I want to meet the insubstantial beauty that my soul so constantly screams for; and I can still see her, smiling on the beach, always remaining the one unfinished piece of a past that was so imperfect – and I could not feel for land, feet thrashing furiously beneath the silent skin of hopelessness that was the water dragging me away – and DAMN! I need to go back, so take me back to this thing, that dragon that was the glamour of childish days!

What a mistake that is. But still I am waiting, the insubstantial woman obfuscating, passing back more and more down that hazy-eyed path, and finally, in that tragic moment, be something new –

But aren’t these lies tempting…

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