He Says It’s Desire
He’s the most… confident of them all. In the odd little world that somehow comprises my brain, he’s the only one who can actively change things without me being around or without having my say so or me telling him he can do something. Like that transport thing they all seem to be envious of, he’s quite good at that one. As it happens, his confidence manifests itself in odd ways around him, ranging from his clothes – an oversized fluffy one that’s colored white and is really soft, which I know because I’ve touched it – to the women that gather around him – faceless which tells me that they’re not part of my consciousness but actually part of him and usually dressed in bare minimums that I could swear my mind has never even seen before. And on most occasions, he’s usually in some room with high-class furniture and décor that drives me crazy trying to figure out where I might have seen it all because the mind cannot create what the mind has not seen or known. The coat, yes, my eyes might have spotted in a window at one point and there was a very long debate in my head about buying it. That, I get. But the plush circular couch that could seat the entire Knights of the Round Table, maybe a pantheon of mythological gods? No clue.
Anyway, he’s the most confident, with clear skin, smoldering stares, and ruffled hair that actually makes sense. Because he’s more than just a confident figment in my head. According to him, he happens to be a manifestation of the very thing I desire. What that happens to be, though, I’m not entirely sure because he quickly started cursing me out when I asked why I would want a male stripper. Not sure why he was so upset about that. All the black leather under the coat and the light chains and crap all scream strip-club to me. Either that, or bondage sex slave which really doesn’t sit right in my head. Just… no. So really, he’s the manifestation of something or other in my head that I must really want and as such enjoys bugging me about doing a number of things I happen to know would be fantastic fun. They also happen to be partially illegal or not entirely sanitary or socially acceptable.
For instance!
One does not walk down the middle of main street – I’m being literal when I say that – dressed in full regalia from the renaissance while screaming out for their king. Especially when one does not have a king to scream out for, a particular damper on any attempts at chivalry or shows of medieval skill. Such things are frowned upon mostly for the fact that they require weapons of potentially harmful natures…
One also does not wander into construction zones with roller blades on and skate about singing about raining men as they throw paint everywhere in an attempt to be artistic. That would find one arrested, minimum, and maybe with several hefty fines for vandalism, trespassing and disturbing the peace. Not that there’s any peace to disturb on a construction site that has nothing but farmland surrounding it that somehow managed to remain there in the middle of a city.
But that’s me rambling and the main point here is that he highly encourages these things but barely manages to be content with them getting written down in a journal or suggested as protest ideas to others. Hopefully they ignore that second one since that can get people into major trouble. Any way I look at it, though, he’s something from deep in my subconscious that’s taken form because there’s clearly something that I desperately want more than anything and he’s around to show that to me. Although he’s done a very shitty job at doing so and as such is almost completely useless to me. Except for some very extreme form of entertainment as long as I’m in the mood for a more racy kind of joke.
“You don’t even care, do you?”
Blinking out of my thoughts, which is rather odd now that it’s occurred to me, I stare at him from my seat across the obscenely large couch. “I’m sorry, what? I was thinking about something.”
“I’m aware. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m in your head and I hear your thoughts regardless of how hard you try to hide them, right?”
Completely unembarrassed, I shrug at him.
“So shameless.”
“Says the man-whore currently embodying feminine sexualization.”
He blinks back at me, a frown on his face. “Do I look like I’m modeling underwear? No.”
“But you look like you’re modeling for Playgirl.”
“You said that last week,” he practically sings – he naturally has an amazing voice to top it all off, the smug bastard. “I heard that.”
A smirk crosses my face, enjoying that thought heavily. “Good. Maybe it’ll kill your ego a bit. That’d be fantastic.”
His frown tells me everything he wants to say. According to him, I’m a very sad and pathetic person with a very low everything. And that’s apparently a very bad thing, although I think being me is absolutely fantastic if only for the fact that being me is incredibly easy to do. For the majority of classes and work, my responsibility requires me to be in one place for extended series of time and remaining there for the majority of my life. In other words, life for me is simplistic and easy to understand, which is how I like it because that gives me the chance to sit there and think deeply in the back of my mind.
“No, you just don’t like doing anything that requires actual effort.”
“Yet I’m sitting here talking to you. Isn’t that requiring effort.”
Again, he frowns at me, but eventually shrugs and pushes away from the pair of girls leaning against him. The second he’s standing from the couch, they vanish as if they’d never been there – no burst into mist or a sound effect like the movies, just not there anymore. And he strides purposefully toward me and my section of the couch. Which I only now wonder how I’d gotten to since the entire thing is one large circle and there’s no real entrance to it.
“That’s a hint,” he chuckles, stopping in front of me. “Tell me something, sweetheart-“
“Don’t call me that, pig.”
“-so I can get this brain of yours better. What really stops you from doing what you want? What keeps you locked up in that routine you seem to cling to?”
Unlike his now smirking face, I find myself pouting up at him. “Don’t you already know that? The whole lot of you constantly argue and debate in my head, I find it hard to believe you aren’t entirely aware of what goes on in here.”
“Well, sure,” he snickers, sliding into the seat next to me. “But do you know what stops you? What’s holding you back?”
Sighing lightly, I try to think on his words. When was the last time I’d consciously thought on why I wouldn’t do something or what was wrong with one of my ideas? Well, aside from last week when my eyes were glued to a computer screen trying to come up with a good topic for a college paper. It would have been a very bad idea to thoroughly explain the methods and uses of medieval torture in class to a group of apparently squeamish classmates. That’s how students get kicked out of the classroom and future discussions. Otherwise, though…
“How should I know? I’m not my brain.”
The man next to me laughs, light and airy, as if he can’t believe me. “Yet you work with that same brain on a daily basis. Explain that to me.”
I shrug helplessly at the question. “I need my brain. If I don’t use it, it’ll stop working and I like it working like it’s supposed to. What else am I supposed to do with it?”
“Listen to it, maybe? Try it for once,” he suggests, a grin on his lips. “You might just learn something new about yourself.”
Frowning over at him, I debate the idea in my head just as I’d done a million other times in my life. And for once, there was a real majority in those arguing for agreement with him. Which is incredibly odd considering how often they tend ot argue against his ideas.
“Ever think there’s a reason for that?” His snickering makes me frown deeper. “Hey, I’m just saying, is all.”
“Whatever. Go back your toys.”
“But I don’t want toys right now,” he whines at me. “I want to take a nap!”
Groaning lightly, I lean back against the couch and ignore the weight that drops into my lap. Although I do glance down at the man now turned boyish with his head on my legs. Such a strange thing about him, much like the kids he tends to look a certain way depending on how he acts. Going by the fact that he now looks like a ten-year-old, he must’ve really wanted a nap. And since he’s using me as a pillow, it seems I’ve got the time to take that deep look into my subconscious everyone seemed so set on me doing. Well, if it keeps them quiet, even if just for a little while, who am I to complain?