(A Mirage of My Illusion)

You are not afraid of fire. You are afraid of enjoying the burn. You consume everyone around you; you want everyone to open up for you to consume their experiences, sadness and joy. You enjoy the tales, but you’re afraid of telling yours, because they’ll heal you. Because your world is a trap of eternal blissful darkness, and everyone wants in, but it’s only you who knows the burden of living it.

You don’t want to be insecure with anyone; a loved one or to be the beloved, because you are afraid of one’s absence. No one is constant. Reaches a limit that you tell yourself to stop.

You’ve lost good people, the ones that you thought would stay longer. The irreplaceable ones, but like clouds, we have to set the sky clear once more, we all move on to the next thing like whores. It’s never anyone’s fault. And so when an opportunity presents itself, you shy away from it. You say, I don’t want to have you and end up losing you.

That’s the paradox of your psychology.

So you rather exist In a glass caged prism by will. To be seen. To be known. To be felt. Not to be touched. Not to be knowned. Existing in the Meadows of darkness. To care for everyone, and not to be cared for. That’s okay.

Everyone you meet, like wind doesn’t stay, and they have different effect on you. It’s really okay, you can easily replace them with the next person who comes in line. And it’s really okay, because they can’t forget you, you gave them something. They know you’re good. You’re totally good, and even so close to perfection, but you’re broken. Way too broken to be understood in a fix.

They will forget you, because you are what once was.

I’m sorry.

You are now, nothing but the dying embers of memories they struggle to piece together.

And so this is your life.

You want love but you don’t want to be loved. You think all these are based on pretense. You want a life but you don’t want to live, you wonder, for what, when the things you’ve chosen to live for doesn’t last for long? And God…???

But here’s the thing, sometimes we can’t control how we feel, and who we feel it for. We can’t control that unconscious touch of hands between two people. That spark. We can’t ignore it. Even when we know that there’s something between, when indeed there’s nothing. And sometimes when we know there’s nothing, when we desperately need something to be there.

You’re afraid of time. How it changes things around you. It creates empty spaces, to be filled temporarily, then poof!

I might call this A Mirage of My Illusion, when it’s indeed yours, but you’re too blind to even read between the lines.

Reading from an old Psychiatric Diary of Phill Ibsen, Master of Descriptions.