I am cursed. I am burdened with the delusions of luscious grandeur per my fantasies. They tend to blend together like an alchemist using tonics for love and sadness mixed together. Love potion number 9 cooked up right in the kitchen sink of my mind. Lust driven and heat seeking missiles set off by the buzzer hit with the very first thought. Attention paid in full with the first exchange of words leading to more. A fix, a hit, a minor addiction set aside for solo pleasure and necessity.
The build up much like a cartooned snowball at the top of a mountain. Gaining size and speed as it tumbles down the illusion become reality covered hill and splatters at the bottom, 90 seconds later with a look of panic and excitement and desire for more but fear of allowing and the days divinity holding hands with the devil and the mind leads them both. But what a rush.
Is it my fault that seduction lies within the four walls of my day dreams? That my body is my temple and my soul craves what it wants and that my spirit though trapped in this world is free to roam in it’s own fairyland? Does that make me a criminal? NO. That makes me human. And it makes me the woman I am living in a creative utopia. Humbly satisfied with useful imagery and pleasured by my fabrications one red lipped kiss at a time. An invitation for continuance but unreceived and unfinished. Left to hang in the darkened balance once lit by ignited fires now smoldering low and dim.
Attainment and substance became tangible and valid. Palpable and tactile.
But just like a hallucination, I came down after the high and awoke from my slumber, filled with apparitions of passion into an unfortunate fool’s paradise. A fable read before bed and enjoyed with each figured page turned on and turned off, just like that. The End not even read aloud but simply and cowardly understood. How unbecoming. How unfavorable. And so it is what it is on this almost spring day with the flakes of winter still coming down reminding me just how cold it can be in this world no matter how hot it gets.
Beware the ides of March they say, but instead, I’ll drink tea with him in the comforts of my own fantasia and keep that impassable door locked……for now.