ZED: This is why it happens. And it always does happen. Every single time it does, I feel like I understand him even less. Yet I stay submissive to his guidance even more with every encounter.

~
He visits me every so often. To be frank, I believe that the true frequency of his repetitive visits is calculable as a mysterious mathematical equation, an algebraic formula, for which I know not yet the names or the functions to any of the variables. He tends to show up in and over the span my life at specific intervals that happen to be proving so far to sync up with times in my life that are void of pleasurable sensations. By the time he exits

my life again my neurons have been tickled.

When he arrives, he sneaks up behind me. He slowly wraps me up in an embrace from behind, holding my forearms snug in a hug. This is where it all begins – the same way, every time.

I comfortably sink into his chest and I feel as if his body encompasses me. His warmth heats my mind and I begin to delusion myself into thinking I can read his thoughts. I let go of any urge to resist his hold on me. Fascinated, I focus all of my attention to him and I read only his thoughts.

He’s polite. He’s silently observing me, or so he tells me socially. By reading his silent non-judgmental thoughts of me I begin to visualize myself through his imagination – and so here is where I close my eyes to hear more clearly what he has to tell me.

He says he has just come to check in with me concerning my growth in life. I see, through his eyes, my evolution into a human socialite. He shows me the point where I took off from as a human, and a flash picture of the future I’m heading towards. I get a full glimpse of my entire lifetime in one consecutive, never-ending moment, all of which adds up to the sum of the presently ticking second. How he knows these things is beyond me, but not far beyond at this point – I see our worlds begin to merge as one.

Tic. Who is this man? Tic. Who does he think I am? Tic. Who do I think I am? Tic. Do I think that I am who he thinks I am, or am I he who thinks that he is I? Tic. Are those two differences truly contrasting or are they just altered ways of seeing the same picture… Tic.

Tic. It’s all a matter of time and death that feeds the truth of my socialist existence, and our time is now.

~

Toc. I sit up and open my eyes. Blankly, I kick the sheets off my legs and sit up crossed- legged on the couch. I’m alone. He must have slipped out earlier in the morning while I was still asleep, as he often does. His essence lingers still around the body parts he embraced and I feel lifted and lighter. All that he showed me idles between my imagination and my concept of time.

I watch one minute tic by on my watch while I hold my breath. Two minutes. Two and a half. My body forces out a sigh and my mind feels fresh, focused and full of eternal verity. The pure powdered paper pushes me out of my thoughts and I watch them scroll behind my ponytail.

It always happens, and this is why. I submerse myself into his company to feel whole and every time he leaves, I sense a small bit of him staying behind with me. And someday I wish that he would not leave me. And if he must leave me, someday I hope that he takes me with him. I belong next to him, and he, next to me – and hence let it continue until either time or death runs out. That which confines is never eternal.