Entertaining Guests

A door has been opened, a house that has been there for a long time, but closed has offered to open its door. The neighborhood has awakened. First on the scene is excitement, she's young, naive, she sees pleasure in everything. Hardly thinking past what she can see. I'm overjoyed to be in her company, blinded by the same rose tint of her glasses. We picnic together in the beautiful paintings of excitement's reverie. She's adorable and cute, but young and I long for company, that doesn't blind me with their view. 

Second to arrive, motivation. She's as alluring as ever. The soft words that emit from the sensual line of her body, coax me to dance. Drawing myself from the picnic, I relish the feel of her hand in mine, as she brings me to my feet. She guides my hand around her waist and pulls me so close my breathing syncs with her's, having confused signals. I swoon internally, cherishing our closeness as we begin to dance. I'll succumb to her. I want her. She knows it. She has a tight grip on my hand and she's not planning on letting go easily.

With a party like ours we're bound to attract attention. Our greasy friend paranoia. I keep him around, because a masochistic part of me enjoys his perspective. He puts a spin on things in ways that put me on edge, and make me feel alive with 'what if'. He makes life tense and interesting. 

He cuts in, directing the graceful dance to a stumbling dark encumbered alleyway. He likes the dark. Prefers it. He says, it's where imagination lives when we get older. That's why it's so hard to find, we don't have time to go exploring dark alleyways littered with junk we can't see. 

He knows me well. Perhaps better then motivation, either that or he's always 'on.' Preparing myself for his strike, I focus on the feel of motivation's body pressing the cloth of my shirt against the skin of my back as her breasts and stomach mold the curve of my spine. I follow her arms that are around my waist, as she hugs me from behind, and am happy she hasn't run. He looks around nervously before striking deep, assuring he's got my attention,

"What if you're feelings are unrequited?"

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The last few days, Oatmeal has been traversing the lands of my mind. With each passing time, a growing curiosity stimulates old memories, motivating me to act. 

When she leaves my mind, I find myself entertaining wonder. Whom entered by enticing my eye with a glimpse. Her body inaudibly raised questions. Is there something in my life going on that's attracting her? Is she thinking about me, so strongly it's palpable within my own head? Did something happen? What is she doing in my head? Imagination steps in and the subject morphs into possibilities of mind connections on that level. 

Can the electric impulses that are my thought of you, find the station you're tuned into mentally and project myself in your head?

I want to call Oatmeal and bring her out of my fantasy and into my reality. I don't have her number. The people that I thought might, don't have it. One of them, Card Shark, even tried to covertly talk me out of even trying to contact Oatmeal. It's become surreal. And yet, I still want to hear her voice. 

In trying to find Oatmeal's phone number, I stumbled across some of my old journals. Distraction growled hungrily as I read the scripts to memories I had forgotten. 

This was written May 05, 2008...