Journey Agent

The night is quiet. It is early. I've become aware of the sudden drop in temperature that surrounds me, and in noting this, have shut the window. It's at these times - the night, that my mind wonders to all places. To the past, it is now. Pretty soon I will begin another desperate search - sick in the mind, yearning again, to the point where I can no longer think of anything else. These thoughts will consume me, lingering til the day-break and then resume themselves. Botherig me constantly, nagging. I'll be hungry, suckling like a baby, until it for now, subdues and I no longer will be quivering from shock and anxiety.
And one day, a stream of the most harmonious words and utter happiness will escape from me - illuminate my surroundings, and I will feel it again. It will have returned, like the some months ago. It will be there. I too, will be there. And knowing how powerful this action would be, I, for a moment, would be lost.
The art of his thoughts, the words, will entrance me and dissolve beyond the present, into the past and influencing my future. In accepting the loss, in acknowledging deprivation, in not believing, to go beyond the basic instincts and maternal feelings, as if looking over a child.
But it leaving, in everything, I know that to remain in this state, is to do something I can no loner bear; to lye awake fraught heavily at night with the memories, the evidence and every day, the hope.
Nevertheless, in the leaving, I cannot help but curse and dread the very things that brought this to me, only to take it away, leaving me sick in the mind and body. And I curse with enthusiasm, and will continue to do so in my thoughts, my dreams, everyday knowing all too well that this is no good- the dream is gone. Waking up in mornings, sore, pinched, nagging. Whispering dreams so high. Still pouring out new curses, but agreeable.
It didn't belong to me. Despite the fixed idea of immunity, the pictures, the short time and boredom. The greatest joy and the most awful horrors all at once, which ironically now, are pleasant. I feel compassion for every break and every moment of seeing and knowing.
The beuaty and confusion it brang. I decided to lay out my whole life, as if in a grain of sand. And i've blown it. When I decided to do this, I felt that the magic I had once experienced was too charming and mighty, for it to be enduring. Too much. I could never go back. I find this awkwardness in this sphere only laughably horrible and sweetly surreal as a feeble monster; highly interesting, but intolerably cruel.

In a few hours i'll be asleep. He'll be a million miles away.