The mind is a strange thing.  It leads us to thoughts – recurrent, recursive, obsessive.  These thoughts do not leave us, but plague us, dwindling slowly over time until we are naught but one with our minds, living entirely in a realm of the fictional.  Then the fictional world begins to intrude on the real world – faces from the menial reality of the mind become intertwined with those of our day to day, replacing what we see.  It’s a film seen through a filter of despair and want and hope, and all of those things that make us inherently human.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have taken a path that would lead me to playing the white knight on a regular basis.  Perhaps I should have been aware of some inherent weakness within, known that it could – indeed, would – happen at one point or another.  Does the solution to the problem lie within my awareness?

But then, if I were to believe myself immune to the fantasy I would be denying a core essence of what makes me a person.  Is it not a part of life to find things beautiful?  And in finding beauty, do we not then care for things?  Things, I say, as if I speak of some absolute – but then in a way I do, for to do otherwise would be wrong (in so many ways).

My momentary obsession has led me to searching the dark corners of the internet, where I’ve found more answers – and like any good answer in any good story they’ve led only to more questions and the subsequent desire to continue questing.  But herein lies the dilemma of the unattached: my horse can go no further, lest I cross some unseen, unknown boundary from whence I fear an inability to recover.

So I’ll stop and sigh and leave things to my dream world, those questions vacant and unfulfilled.  In my mind’s eye I can see the answers, tantalizingly near, dancing as if shadows in some misty veil.  But that is a line I cannot cross, else obsession becomes more.  From this I will recover, once my mind is filled with thoughts of more than she.