And somewhere along the way, I leave behind the doubts, second-guesses, what-ifs, and give into the purity of the emotion. I trust the emotions, the irrational tugs at my puppet strings, because I have never felt anything so strong, such an unrelenting force. So with the doubts, I leave behind the game, and in leaving behind the game, so I shed my dignity, my pride. To stand nude in front of you.
Perhaps I did not realize what I was getting myself into. I did not realize it could feel this awful at the same time. I hear your voice, flat and impersonal, over the voicemail again. "This is Matthew Turmand. Leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can thanks." I've left too many messages. I'll leave another one. I have never been made to feel this needy before. I have never been so confronted by my own weakness, your flat and impersonal voice resonating testimony in my ears.
I imagine you must be disgusted by my weakness, by my neediness for you. But as I said, the pride is gone. I am exposed, so if you blow me away, I will soar like ash in the wind. Dead embers that burnt as it must, as it should. Peaceful, resigned, and free.
But for now, purity of emotion has lured me into a labyrinth of addiction and torment. Addiction and torment in exchange for a few moments per day, of love, incompletely culminated and intense. Like a singular drop of honey on the tip of your parched tongue.
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