You seem attached indifferently.
I learned this somewhere. You seem informed—about life’s rays, serotonin,
social opiates, the offbeats. You seem aggressive, made passive, filled with
personality: a gifted person, a gracious companion, a giving in its losing. So
chic. So rare. So many years of training. The flying swami—filtered, made raw,
a person or two are addicted to whimsy, chords, expertise. I do this ever and
anon, I fall for some ideal, some idyllic image, whelmed by visions. You seem
sensitive, impassively. You seem like a hurting person, with a wonderful
element, a cured indifference. You picture well. I imagine an aesthetic in you.
I won’t speak of sexuality, not overtly, it appears a given. I try to ignore
you. I believe you would have me fall harder—just to say, “I hate you.” So I ignore
voltage. I dismiss romance. I flit away from my mind. I even think of something
I know is unfounded—if to escape an emotion. It’s radical—a person can know, as
if certain, against a dynamic, while inside the person is daydreaming, filming
events, upon a fictional platform. I have come further: the mind will seize an
image, refute unsaid image, then sulk, become sullen, affecting the total
personality—upon grounds that can’t exist, period! It seems so amazing. I can
get mad, gently mad, because something is impossible. The value of the mystery—the
beauty of the person—or the casualty I would become. You’re a portrait made of
energy, maybe a delicate spirit, maybe quite angry; maybe, a miracle in others,
maybe, a few know your agony, your name, your inside penalties.
