The Idea-smithy

You are mine.

You are right.

But it doesn’t feel like it.

Because you only have possession, not control.

Do you not want me?

I do. But not as much as I should. Not as much as I could. Not yet.

Does that matter?

You can own my body, my mind and even my emotions.
But until my will is you, you will never truly own me.

I don’t wish to force you or bend you to my will.

Well-spoken, dear one. You are as wise as I have hoped.

And yet, I don’t have you.

This is true as well.
Possession without control is but a cage.
And cages can be broken.

So can control. What I want is mastery.

They are not different.

Yes, they are, my sweet. You aspire to give me surrender, oh yes, you do. And it might a sweet reward, especially to one starved for so long. But what I want is mastery. An abdication of the hunger for any more such delights.

You lie. Or perhaps not.
If you lie, this beginning is over. Rather, you misphrase.
You desire surrender as much as I do. But what we both need is release.

And you think the answer lies in postponement?

Well, indulgence hasn’t worked, has it?

You’ve had others, then?

So I have. Did you think I would come to you unpracticed?

I suppose not. Even the beginning wouldn’t have happened, then.

Right, I don’t believe in spontaneous miracles.

And I am skeptical about love at first sight.

Cynical, chere! Give the mortals their flash miracles, it keeps them occupied. You and I have forever and beyond to negotiate.

It’s just an illusion.

So am I. And you. A figment of the other’s imagination.

That’s not logical. You can’t be illogical in this game.

But I’m not. When we cease to be our illusions, we cease to be. And what if we swap illusions, every now and then?

And what if we just ended this here?

If we do, we’ll just be two people who killed the conversation and had great sex.
But if we don’t, we continue to be you and me,
mutual enigmas, perpetual unquenched desire, the eternal emptiness.

Touche, my love and adieu.

I thought you didn’t believe in love.

Not at first sight. Nor first conversation. But this is the end of our beginning. The first of whatever comes next.

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~O~O~ I call myself a chronic thinker. A few centuries ago, I’d have been called a Thinker. Or burnt at stake for being a witch. My degree is my passport to the world of respectability. I moonlight as a troubled poet, a warrior princess and a closet sorceress. I am all of these and yet none of them is all of me. All I was born to be really, was a story-teller. Scheherazade, Galelio, Cleopatra and Salvador have passed through. This time round, just call me IdeaSmith. Read more ideas

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