Updates to the last post – working on developing a first person stream of thought fictional character description (thus far it being only the stream of thought part). Feel free to give me critique or suggestion :)
It’s intimidating. Something in the way they look at you. So penetrating that you can feel your soul start to quiver. As they draw near, their eyes rake your body in waves moving slowly and so meticulously that you can see their irises dilate as the ever-changing blue slowly disappears. As their body starts to overshadow the light in the room and they move near, you wonder if anything else even exists – as if everyone else in the world suddenly stops and doesn’t move or breathe unless you’re actually watching it happen. It’s the feeling that – whether they’re standing right in front of you, close enough to feel the ever faster beating of your heart, or whether they’re across the room with eye contact as the only true connection – they know what you’re thinking, what you’re feeling, what you’re wishing. You feel naked as their stare pierces into your innermost realms of thought – and you know that can see the trembling of your knees as you attempt not to stagger under the weight of implication.
The way they move forces you to react like a magnet, constantly reassessing your physical orientation to complement theirs perfectly – just in case they choose to close the distance. Every flinch of their hand elicits a twitch from your fingers, itching to grasp theirs. Each time their mouth moves to allow words to pass through, your lips part, as if to receive them. The shifting of their eyes to someone else in the room pulls you to that point as if by some invisible force or rope and you panic as you attempt to regain their attention. Time seems to slow to the point that, for a few moments you can see a raindrop make it’s path down the stem of a flower and into the soil. You can see the embers ignite and die out at the end of a cigarette. You witness an individual beat of a hummingbird’s wings. And as all of these amazing things happen around you, your focus doesn’t waver for a minute from that person’s face, waiting for that fleeting expression of genuine emotion that graces one’s face before the reaction we decide to present takes over, making you feel as if that imperceptible moment never really happened in the first place. You’ve studied every reaction and movement of their body for so long that you feel like the creator. As if you were the sculptor commissioned to find the perfect being waiting to be revealed in a piece of granite or stone. You know every line or crinkle in their face that only appears when they start to laugh. You can predict when their hair will start to fall in front of their eyes almost quickly enough to reach out and catch it, placing it neatly back into its proper place. Every part of their body – from their shoulders that flex as they hug someone walking in the doorway, to their collarbone that rises with each breath they intake, to their foot that taps in time with the music playing – stirs as if you molded it out of clay one day while pondering what the perfectly flawed human would look and move like. As if you were painting and dictating what the figures on the canvas should be formed and evolved into.
And somehow they have the ability to just reach out to grab it. If they asked you for your heart, you know you wouldn’t dare put up a fight. You’d just hand it over to them, and let them do what they wanted with it – no matter the intentions. As much as you want to think you’d demand a certain level of respect and consideration, you don’t care if they throw it out the window, so long as they held it in their hands for a brief moment in time. ‘Tis better to have felt love at all, right?
But where is the line drawn? Is this feeling you’ve been dwelling on for what feels like centuries love or mere infatuation? Or have you focused on the curve of their neck and the movement of their eyes for so long that you create the illusion that your feelings are mutual? You try to convince yourself that something this strong has to be genuine. You feel like you know their body and emotions and reactions so well that there isn’t the slightest possibility of lack of reciprocity. The obvious passion cannot possibly be ignored by anyone – especially them.
But it’s not important to you that the moment be mutually felt – you know what you feel. You want nothing more than to make the decision on your own. The decision to take control and not ask for what you want, but take it. But is that choice really still in your power to make? It scares you to realize that, for once in your life, you might not be in control of what happens next.
How does it feel to be truly powerless to the thrills of exaltation? To not care about any true exchange, but rather to prefer the enjoyment of a dream (if it turned out to only be that) is such a Shakespearean plot twist, and it’s one you’d be content with if that’s all this turned out to be. The line between obsession and love grows thinner as all definitions of those words lose any sort of relevance in your thoughts. Dangerous territory has been breached, and you hope to never tread elsewhere.