4:15 Fantasy

I am a fantasy.

I have known this for a long time now - sometimes with certainty, and other times... Well, I am not always so secure in my knowledge.

But now is a time of bold certainty, as I lay on my bed, scribing this to you with fingers cramped from reading. Odd, that this should be a good time, a knowledgeable time. I am sweaty, muscles sore, bruises slowly coming into bloom, face scrubbed, hair wild. It is much too late for me to be alive like this, much too early for awareness to have even sparked into my eyes.

Nevertheless, I am restless, the soft music that I barely noticed previously now plucking at my abused limbs. I ache to have motion - kisses, fights, or dances. My body cares not which, as long as the fantasy is expressed, as long as the music works through my veins and I move in ageless ways.

The urge is made worse by the fact that even if I do give up, let the fantasy out and the music in, I will do so alone. Had I the choice I would not be, but I have that not. Sometimes there are constraints beyond human will upon our potential - constraints like human consequences. But I suppose that traces back to human will power the same.

Either way, I would still move alone, fantasy, music, will and all.

It is too warm and too cold simultaneously. I curl beneath the blankets, aware that all too shortly, I will kick them aside. Dreaming, wet-waking-restless, of possibilities and promises, keys and fetters, and the fantasy it all comes back to. That fantasy, all alone and singing softly, who, for all her will, is not a fairy - is not free.

But then, I suppose she is all she ever thinks to be.

I find it interesting that the words I write grow quickly more abstract, even as they become more vague and ever increasingly personal. I am straight with others but circular with myself. Circular with that lonely third-person fantasy, caught up in chains and music and her own will or lack thereof to do anything about any of the above.

But which is it?

Well, I don't know. All I can say is that I am a fantasy, somedays certain, somedays not, my fingers cramped with writing, but not nearly so restless as I was before.