If not for the streetlights there would have been no conclusion. The Chosen him was not at the end of it. I cannot call him The Chosen him because he was more accurately a wrong choice. With deep apologies I will continue writing by referring to him as Wrong Choice.
Wrong Choice does not sound like a name and so preference is pushing us to name him Ronald. Ronald does not resemble the name of any man I could love or any man I could be We must continue by calling him Ronnie. Ronnie is a terrible name and a lie but then again the character is thereby symbolically labeled.
I chose Ronnie because he fooled me.
With brave wooden feet . Consistently planted in manure. Spreading painful presentations of bullshit. Comfortably. His spectacular pain appeared to be true
It is foolish to assume that pain is true. Ronnie made me foolish.
Something like the end of time would appear on his face before the discussion of what sounded like intelligence. I never fell in love with Ronnie. The light hit him.
I could not look away. Love is that process. Looking at light.
I ask, Is that you.
He says, Yes.
It is a question encoded in personal myth. He cannot have an answer unless he is part of the myth. This is after my initial search for him. The night I dedicated coffee beans and fruit pits to him. Walked in the dark with a petal in my mouth. Eyes shifting waiting ready to swallow the petal upon seeing him. The night swirled through combed mushroom person huts and distinct roadside flowerbeds cornered by French conversation and glasses of milk. Children appeared too late for them to be outside. In an effort to shoo them home raccoons ate them alive. I watched their disappearance.
From a park bench made from stone and blonde hair, the words "TOO HOW YES" written across it, knives enmeshed in the underbelly gum of midnight Montreal
I sat with a fake flower petal in my mouth waiting for lights. Blinded by eager wind whispers of reassurance and cold icepacks made from peas. Eating is forgotten.
Time is nothing but a method for controversy. My time will begin when he appears.
He does not appear.
Spongy fake flower petal lingers under my teeth. I eat it. It is bug-like in its mystery. It is an anti-flower. There is no man there is not any kind of man.
I sift pebbles with my eyelids until they bleed. Waiting for him. I told Him I would be lost. I told Him to tell me where to go. There is no him. Ronnie becomes the time.
The light tricked me. Small dogs lead me home. A dark room empties my ambition until morning light appears with the trial of an apology.
YOU ARE READING
Imitations of Healing
General FictionA woman falls in love while recovering from bipolar disorder. She's obsessed with a man she believes is her soulmate, but is he even real?
