Love is obsession, fascination, castration, illusion, delusion and damnation all rolled in one blinding, oh so intricately wrapped up package. I’ve lost count (or maybe am just too lazy to even bother) as to how many times I have allowed myself to be blinded. Like a shiny new toy, they all made me go all excited. Guts tied up in knots. My eyes glisten in awe. Their presence whets my appetite. You’re all jittery to the point of throwing up. Wonderful eh? The days draw to numerous endings, weeks while away, and months move along; then you get tired of your shiny new toy. Well, it doesn’t glow the same way it used to. You’ve seen all of its flaws and your lack of regard quickly ensues. You end up wanting a new one, need a new one, more learning, less breaking. At times when you get tired of a toy, you bash it to oblivion. Or leave it to rot, if that’s even attainable. Then again, some of your toys have a way of fighting back. They break just when you begin to enjoy playing with them. They’re all ruined and you know for a fact that they were not manufactured in bulk. The toy factory cannot give you another one like it. Maybe a replica, but would you actually revel in a copycat? Could you fool yourself into taking it as if it was the same thing which dared break before it could live up to its purpose? Toys, they all were, no matter the presentation, the price, the way they were handed to you… every single one is a material for pleasure. But pleasure is subjective. That which was intended to bring forth such feeling may actually be the trigger to feel bereft. Displeased by a plaything, what miscreant would live with that defeat? Toys come to life when you’re asleep, old folks use that as a scare tactic but who’s to say it is absolute fallacy. At times when you are actually at peace communing with your unconscious, these ragdolls may very well be getting on their feet, replacing your air with poison, your dreams with nightmares and crushing your frail heart till you breathe only their names. I loved these toys to the best of my understanding as to what constitutes the word. You see, when I called you my toy, it was as good as saying, you were a part and parcel of my stitched-up, pattern-filled, dirtpile self. Another’s wind-up toy, I once was too.
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