Making a whisper out of you...

I don't know why I do this to myself. Is this tendency towards self-destruction just the by-product of a slyly ingrained desperation? Is it created by my flamboyant insecurity? My fear that someone will look close and hard, and realise that everything about me is a facade whose construction puts the Taj Mahal to pitiful shame? Why must I manufacture feelings where there are none? Pretend to fall in love with someone whose words are merely words; lip service in its strictly idiomatic form?

I think about him not only out of convenience, but mostly out of boredom. I pull the bygone affections, careless words, pithy touches of the past to recreate an unlikely future. I see the neon signs scream "APOCRYPHAL!" and I blink them away like wind-weary travellers seeking refuge.

Most days, he smiles beatificially at me, urging me to be more. And so I pray for the requisite beauty, intelligence and wit to elevate me to his level. But as always, the recipient of my prayers for decimated inadequacies fails to deliver. So I try to kick the pedestal as hard as I can, but I fall flat on my face, while he feigns sympathy from his bejewelled throne.

I hate that he can just fucking waltz into my life, glib as old Hollywood, and hijack all traces of logic.