My Idea

My dearest idea, what image shall you take? This day or the next, who might you choose to be? Shall you take the form of distant past? Shall you haunt me with the future? Will your form be but words whispered? Will your shape become that of the shadows?

My idea, I cannot live without you. You are my hope for tomorrow and my fear for the past. Why be not kind to me? Why cause me to suffer? Are we not one and the same? Am I not you? Are you not me? Without each other, who would we be?

Without me, you are but a form. Shapeless. Listless. My eyes are your paintbrush, my ears your canvas. Without me, your whispers fall upon nothing. The voice you might take would match no face. Any face you might take would hold no meaning.

And without you, I would have no hope. Tomorrow would be but another day. Today would be but another yesterday. For your whispers reach me in familiar voice. Your voices paint the pictures of tomorrow. You draw from the sights of days before. And so I am at peace with the day. In knowing that hope lives on in shapeless thought. For no matter what the future holds, I hold my idea.

Yet you are cruel. You plague me with visions of unreality. You place before me faces gone. You whisper in voices that are no longer. You paint pictures of scenes impossible. You place me within. You depict me with a smile. You turn hope to despair. For what hope I hold is for the future. And you paint not reality. You are but an idea.

So I beg you be real. But my desperation feeds you. My sadness gives clarity to your image. My fear gives power to your voice. You become real. Perfectly real. And in your perfection I am lost. To dare see the truth is to embrace your torture. Can I be to blame for your beauty? Am I to blame for wanting beauty?

Beautiful, you may be, but real, you are not. I am real. So I might hope. My hope is for reality. That one day I might sit within your scene. That one day I might wear your smile. That one day, you are not the artist.