And They Judged for Nothing Else Seemed Apropos

You know, today has been both enlightening and shocking. I have to conclude that my ex's archetype is COMPULSIVE MALE.

All my regular "interactees" in walk-a-day life know I am constantly mumbling with a dull, listless stare about archetypes. Most address me with grin-and-nod composure tightly strapped on their faces like Botox smiles. Others, simply attempting to understand, find themselves rapt in paralytic rigidity whilst moving languidly for the over-sized econopack bottle of analgesics in a vain attempt at sanity. Still others, must turn the thermostat to a balmy 55 to deal with blood pressure levels nearing fatal and causing core temperatures to rise dramatically. It seems that few dance on hilltops with merriment. Leaving only a few scraps of was-humans making that tell-tale nod and grumble of affirmation and concordance made only by the OverMan.

Z-man reminds me so frequently with eloquent prose that it is my place to judge, to assess, and to classify. More than my place but my inborn duty and irrefutable responsibility to do so. So, I do. I would like to think I do a relatively satisfactory job of being honest and unbiased as is the requisite. I have accepted that it is not possible to remove all bias without transcending above this existence to one not dependent on it. For all my successes and shortfalls, I make little progress in the arena of believability. So often being swiftly relegated to the echelon over crowded with liars and snake oil salesmen. That in this , the one place I feel it is OK to be what you are for all to see and hate or love or fear, I would deny myself the cathartic pleasure of baring wound and skin for the masses unflinching. That I would somehow recoil from that beautiful salvation wrapped in a moment of unbridled public apathy. In that act, I gain what no one person can provide, a sense of insignificance and normalcy for this fleeting moment. It is wondrous.

Is it a fool's heart that trains his eye upon the phantom face of something only faint whispers herald to be the truly fantastic in nature? Is it truly Love's blind eyes marking the foot steps of an eventuality indefinite? I want to believe that when something seems so irrational and inappropriate, even, that maybe in that lies this thing referred to as magic. The repository of all things ethereal and transient. That wrapped in mystery are the simple truths of paradox and contradiction. That maybe it is not magic but rarity that astounds and perplexes. A touch of the unfamiliar on experienced senses primed for things known so well it is almost premonition.

I am intrigued by this whole thing caslled love and its seemingly ever-changing facade. Its appareny perpetual growth. I think it is we who change and love is static. We learn to perceive it differently through life's goods and bads. It would then lend to believe that we only stop having love when we stop seeing it in all the places that it exists no matter how improbable or oft illogical the residence she acquires.

This last block of word soup is dedicated to the man I was in communications with the entire time I wrote it. A muse to bemuse. My personal paradox and fantastic phantom as it were. Kisses my sweet conundrun. You nake me shine so bright with the living rainbow of emotions.It feels damned good