Being with me gives you a chance to feel superior, and I tolerate that, for being with you makes me feel superior myself. I watch you flail and grasp. I watch your elaborate theories spin. I watch your dazed perceptions hypnotize you. I watch your monsters parade out to do battle with you. I watch you traverse space and time and dimension, and cannot help but smirk at how little you see, especially when you try to perceive yourself.
I love being your oracle. I see the stars and the galaxies spill from your lips in widening complexity – I draw the lines that make them constellations. I measure the red shift. I perceive the pattern that you do not. I love to spell it in one word.
You rage against that which thwarts you. But nothing thwarts you. The hand on your collar is your own.
It has always been this way.
How peculiar being your oracle. It is bittersweet, for to you I am both holy and profane. You share your religion with me, and your body. Between, there is a chasm where I long to be.
How I’d like to be your friend.
I love you as you are, thrashing frog. I love your anger and your fear. I love your desperate need. I love your beauty.
I do not love you as I am. In this, I am discontent.
I want to know you on this planet, in this world, in this skin. Where do you spend your time? With whom do you spend it? Where are you today? Where are you right now?
No, no I don’t. Even at this distance, I feel you walking in the rut. I feel you going around the millstone. Even without trying, I know what’s going on with you, and it’s wearying. The same pain, over and over. The same thoughts, round and round. I don’t need to see the entrails to know they say the same thing as always.
What do you want of me now – holy, or profane? Shall I see for you? Shall I simply fuck you?
How I want to break you open like a porcelain pig! I want the pennies and the dimes to spill out of you and become something new. How I want to cut the straps to the millstone and smack your rump with the stinging whip to send you on your way. I want to smash the record, so the record player can never play it again, and pick a new tune.
I feel like a failure.
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