I want to be Sacha. I don't want to be me anymore. Sacha has fiery, emerald eyes and long, flaxen hair. She is tall and willowy. She has long, slender fingers and soft, delicate hands.
She has two lovely children and probably some grandchildren by now. She lives in London in a big, beautiful house and drives a small but expensive car. She has a long and successful career in a well-paid and prestigious position.
I want to be Sacha. I don't want to be me anymore. I have nothing. She has everything that I ever wanted, including the man with the big, soft hands wielding the pen that writes the words that make me cry out, "I love you!" to a dark and empty room.
He's lived too much a soulful life, and he has the scars to show. His brain is fat with memories that need somewhere to go.
Words clutter his noesis ‘til his thinking is impaired. Compulsions rule his psyche; ideas have him ensnared.
So he pummels at his keyboard, inhales his cigarette, and pours out his expression along with blood and sweat.
His fingers are unstoppable in this race against his age. Words spew from him like molten rocks; wisdom flows as from a sage
Food is wasted on him. Time ceases to exist. He has to get this chapter done, and so he will persist.
His wife tries to show affection, but he doesn't respond much. He prefers his cigarettes and scotch to any woman's touch.
The keyboard yields to his fingers. He must evince the tempest in his head. He'll write incessantly throughout the night, ‘til one morn they'll find him dead.
Everyday, it becomes more obvious to me that you are not of this world. You are Olympian in nature, literature is your élan vital, intellectualism is your religion, and superciliousness is your soul. How stupendously foolish of me to think that I could ever earn your regard. You do well without devotees like me. I know that I am nothing but a gnat buzzing about your venerable ear, pestering and annoying you with declarations of my love, Bzzz, declarations met by your indifference. I am so beshadowed by your intellect, you actually make me feel stupid without even a word to me. Not worth your time. Not worth a bother. It's times like these that my self-worth feels like a negative integer. I'm not sexy, thin, or beautiful, tall, svelte, or willowy, and I could never be enough to turn your head. I have nothing with which I could impress you. I am so irrefutably flawed. More importantly, I'm not Her. I actually sympathize with your disdain of my intrusion into your world. I know that privacy enables you to flourish, but please try to toss me some compassion; a word, no doubt, you know but seldom use. I'm not a haint; I'm not here to steal your soul; I'm just a dreamer...a believer in magick, an overage child putting too much faith in fairy tales. But in the middle of the nights when I go crazy, I can feel you stop, listen, and cringe, when I cry out your name. You will never grace me with response. You will just pray I fade away. Would I finally please you, master, if I just die?
He probably thinks that I'm asleep, but I'm listening to him snore. I appreciate the sound, because I couldn't love him more.
I love to watch his sleeping eyes when the sign of dreaming shows. I love to see his brow unfurled. He's more a child than he knows
And as the sun shines through the window, fairies dance upon his hair, a little whiter than it used to be. But then, just ask me if I care.
I watch the trickle from his lips. He would scold me if he knew that I spied upon his sleep again, and there was nothing he could do.
I see him stirring almost waking, but he's caught a few more winks. He makes me smile as he covers up. It's funny I know how he thinks.
He finally rises and he starts his day. I hurry up and leave with care. To my chagrin, it's all a dream. I'm not even really there.
I swim the astral oceans where his presence seems so real. The only time I have with him are in the fantasies I steal.
Perhaps one day we'll meet in this reality. I'll hang on as long as I have breath. And if it's not in the cards to meet in life, I'll be content to meet in death.
