I'm still talking to you.
Even though I have long established
you are not really real.
You are a severed thought.
A strange perfection that rises from
the far worse than imperfect components of me.
It's like you're sitting
at a table with me.
Something normal.
Reassuring me that
I'm not losing my mind.
But that kind of confirms
that I am.
You are not a women,
nor a man.
You are not a lowly beast,
nor divine interference.
You are nothing and omega.
You are what only comes out
when I'm alone.
You are that voice.
On the far side of
the bounds of reason.
There is an abnormal need
for recurrence
to capture and store the nature of you.
For those moments when I need you most.
When I'm not alone anymore
but I want to feel alone.
My conditioning program.
Repeating gestures
patterns
moves
steps
stares
numbers
letters
...
Routines really.
Things to calm me down
when my crusade for new theorems
won't rest.
When the pounding controls me
instead of the other way round.
When I have lost all
but my mission.
In my private moments of seclusion
I'm building a set of applicable memorabilia
to sweeten the acidic nighttime.
An arsenal of resistance.
A defense through overexposure.
An immunity.
And when I'm all pumped up and tough
ready to endure and defy
you'll speak one unreal word
from your unreal mouth
and I'm back at the start.
The word is
yes.