Wicked Musings

The secrets of the universe are locked up in some fantastical equation or algorithm, a cadence of numbering yet discovered, while the wiles of man are purest in word form. The careful articulations, yes, those subtle utterances are the spaces between heaven and hell.

“I’m afraid.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“I’m afraid of falling for you.”

And I kick you in the gut with a hard dissonance, because the words don’t align. There is a cosmic discord between the syllables sprung to life and the daily actions. You know this isn’t truth-telling, but you feign belief in the cowardly sentiment.

You don’t very much like me, even though we’ve been partnered for as long as I can remember, humble friends, so to speak. There it is, the speaking again. I’m self-assertive, loud, an undercurrent of twisted feelings. I’m the one keeping you up at night.

Avoidance is your way of sidestepping my nudges, plowing your head into your phone, a stale book, the lofty work assignment, or a maddening crossword puzzle. Anything to keep the angst at bay. You try to dull yourself out with the magic elixir within reach. It comes in varieties of whiskey alone that will leave you frozen in decision-making: salted caramel, peach, apple, espresso, s’mores, hot cinnamon, chocolate, maple, peanut butter, and the requisite pumpkin spice for autumn. My only question is who wants their whiskey to taste like peanut butter? You want it to go down smooth, not caked to your tongue like choking down a sop.

Naturally, I’m the biggest disrupter of your time and energy, skirting you away from trouble and enduring heartache. Should you send that innocent flirtation via text to your best friend’s husband? That would be a huge blinking hell no, fully capitalized and spinning doubt and worry through your psyche. Unfortunately, you’ve had worse thoughts.

—

She won’t mind if I permanently borrow this cute blouse. She will hardly notice. Then you wear it with a daring brashness. Co-opting is stealing, right?

If only a curse could be placed on his detestable ex-wife, surmising the option as you turn the voo-doo doll in your hands. You contemplate the purchase. Thoroughly. Strolling down St. Ann Street to your boutique hotel, the novelty of the idea persists like the fading twilight, a metamorphosis from light to darkness in the unseemly French Quarter.

Of course, there are the white lies too innumerable to count. Were you really sick? I suspect you could have pulled yourself together to attend the benign Thanksgiving dinner at your in-laws house. I know, you can’t stomach the blandness of the food or the vacuous conversation. Suck it up. It is a holiday for thankfulness.  

There are the countless times you have jumped to horrific outbursts, raging a path of destruction on the fast-food attendant, the store clerk, and anyone on the other end of the customer service line in Brazil. You just want to be understood. I get it.

—

I beckon you with gentle reminders to clip your tongue of those caustic criticisms. But I’ll do an about face and wake you up from the deepest sleep to hurl harsh truths, never allowing you to escape the guilt and shame that you have cleverly calculated and owned. We have a love-hate relationship in that sense.

Some days you almost like me, an indication that I’ve provided a proper pick-me-up. You’ll playfully banter about how I saved you from embarrassment, possible incarceration for that one time you were unholy drunk, and from many of your self-inflicted near ruins. I can hear the words, thank you, on the cusp of enunciation, but the moment passes, and I am left with a half-acknowledgement of gratitude. The unspoken words sit heaviest

When you get into that headspace full of funk and misery, I am apt to needle you the most, if only to save you from the spiral. The reflex is to chastise you into action. There is no reward for lying in bed, commiserating with yourself over the lost chances, the misunderstood slights, and all the innocent betrayals. Even though the perception leans toward foe, I am truly your friend. I long for you to see it.

Sometimes I ponder if I’m separate from you or simply a mirror image of the ugliness and beauty that you’ve created. Could I exist on my own? I have fanciful thoughts of leaving, no, escaping the horrors that you present, but I am prisoner to your kindred spirit. I am a slave to keep you on the proper course. 

There are gentle moments when you are sleeping that I can feel your essence, a sacred place where each breath is a soft flow of time. I close my eyes to the steady movement, a rocking between memories and actions, a lilting reminiscent of the warmth of home. I am meant to be the protector.

I take a deep breath.

I’ve stopped you from fitful rages, provided comfort when you’ve been at fault. I am the fixer, confidant, destroyer, and muse. More than anything, I want you to know that you are worth falling for in a literal sense and a figurative one. You don’t have to be second choice. I am right here. Can’t you see me? You shudder at the realization, a cold understanding that we’re inseparable, a forgone conclusion at the necessity of this bond.

Tightening my focus, I exhale a slow, laborious refutation. Your chest rises and falls. The sunlight filters through the cracked window shutters with a blinding profundity. An ordered mess of dust particles hang in the still air, the light reflecting off their mid-air paralysis. In the dazed glance, you can see the numbers stacked, the days careening into the next like piled wreckage. There is an infinite series of epiphanies, lights turning on while others are extinguished. Sitting in that hollow space between the numbers and the words, you smile. Your laugh is lighthearted and full, a sound that causes me to relax into this destined role.

You smirk the words with a hot redness from the realization that was always right in front of you, the idea set into motion, “Why do I have such a bloody conscience about it all?”