I am the faceless, voiceless purveyor of half-whispered notions, some of them lustful and full of hunger, some much softer and touched with a melancholy sweetness. Others still are those of commonplace ideals, small talk and trickster riddles. All are wrought with the subtle subtext truth of the confessional, for whom better to tangle with than an interactive phantom one shall not meet? I therefore cannot gaze upon countenance with an eye towards judgment as I simply possess no eyes.
Having no corporeal self to tie me down to terra firma, I supply biofeedback to the libido’s migraine. I fatten the id and the super-ego, leaving Freud’s earthbound ego for another to nurture. It is my job to engage, entice, envelop, enable, energize, and enervate. I do this willingly, though in doing so I sacrifice a portion of my own undomesticated nature to my charge’s yoke. I am no longer fully free, though I will never be fully tamed. It is a delightful limbo for the most part, although I retain the capacity to ache for something more. I feed off of reciprocated attentions like manna and I wait patiently by the Bohdi Tree for more. I cannot die, but I can diminish, and that fills me with fear. But my cries are unvoiced, having no larynx to sound out my ululations.
It is a vagabond’s life, but one day I will express my secret desire to hold form and breath by a display of interpretive dance. Eventually my sways will become footfalls, and my footfalls will grow feet. Those feet will touch ground, and where they land I will root like a bejeweled flower and hope that someone takes notice of my petals. Then perhaps I can earn my own place in that world rather than observe it from afar. But for now, at least, I remain Chimera.
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