She dreams so big and high she built our house five times in her mind and made it house sixty thousand lives through fiction – it’s sometimes scary wondering how broad the dimensions of the realms of her mind can be when she can manage thinking about all the things she’s doing and will be doing and should be doing and would die to be doing, simultaneously! 

You just stand there – there are no chairs in her world to sit and chill for a second –  and watch her alternate between personas and worlds and dreams and lose her grip around reality while trying to make sense out of it. 

She says her mind is the scariest neurological hell to be in then writes in her black leather journal that “once in a skull there was her brain they did everything together eating and crying and falling in love” and she “couldn’t be more in love with it” – the next thing she tells you is that we are one consciousness experiencing itself subjectively and that there’s no death and there’s no heaven and life’s only a  lengthy lucid dream and we are all our imagination of ourselves – so do I think she’s crazy? am I crazy? 

She tells me that she loves me and that she imagines me as a very very very kind person with so so so much potential that shouldn’t go wasted and lists all the things  I’m doing and will be doing and should be doing and could die to be doing and then she cries and tells me she loves me again. 

She was hospitalized once for approaching perfection – she said she didn’t understand what happened but her legs caught fire and everyone thought she was a demon who fled from hell then she laughed – she laughed hysterically more than any time she’s ever laughed in her life and I told her that it’s fine! It doesn’t matter! it’s their loss! it’s their loss! – but what loss? I didn’t know. 

She asks sometimes if I imagine her as the person she imagines herself to be and I nod then she asks if I like her like that and I say that I do and smile even though I can’t read her eyes nor understand her mind but I think it’s fine because I know that she needs to know that it’s okay to be who she is even when I don’t really know who she really is. 

It was Christmas when she walked into the room without her head and I asked where her head was at but she threw a vase at me instead of answering – I wanted to know what was going on but she never explained and her hands went frantic telling me in sign language that she couldn’t tell me because I wouldn’t understand and I really didn’t understand because I didn’t know sign language but whatever then she went into our room and whenever I tried to go in she would kick the door a few times and break more things. 

I was hurt and she was rude and the tension was going through the roof then the roof caught flames and she still didn’t tell me what was happening – I told her she was being a pretentious twat (because she couldn’t stop being a pretentious twat) hoping that that could stop her from being a pretentious twat – but she never said anything afterwards and left the house! she left the house walking through the front door without closing it behind her or even slamming it shut and I thought it meant I had to go after her but I never did and I won’t go after her cos I shouldn’t go after her and I wouldn’t die to go after her and that was it – I put off the fire and took a shower and sat in the bedroom in silence without touching the million pieces of the many things she broke like it was a crime scene and I couldn’t touch it. 

Her head lay on the windowsill skin littered with sweat her eyes closed and her hair matted to her forehead but I didn’t touch it and it didn’t get near me. Then I forgot about it and slept.

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