I have a mistress.
She is alternately playful and pensive, overwhelming and subtle, agony and ecstasy. She is every colour of the rainbow. The delicate green of a vein under a fair maiden’s translucent wrist. The fiery orange of the blazing sun. She rules my existence. In my darkest moments of self-doubt, she is my comforter. She bursts forth with joyous abandon in my moments of triumph. Teasing, tantalizing, petulant, laughing, wry, soft, and steely. I hide nothing from her and she hides everything from me, beckoning with a mysterious finger. And I follow, fool that I am, eager to own her, little knowing that better men have tried – and failed.
Her skirts swish as she throws out a passing line and, lissome as she is, runs past before I can ponder, respond; her perfume is exotic, heady, musky. She laughs, and I am tormented, swinging between pain and pleasure, thrown out of orbit, hopelessly, helplessly lost in her vagaries, in the madness that is her pursuit. When I sleep, she sends dreams into my head the meaning of which I know not; when I waken, I can barely catch the last peal of her anklets ringing in the air. I wish to know her, unravel the secrets she holds, hold her, master her, and conquer her.
There are moments when I almost have her within my grasp – and then life intervenes, bills to be paid, men calling my name, family holding me back – and she vanishes. I need solitude to solve this puzzle that she is, I need time with her, within her, around her, about her – I must have her, I must know her, for she holds the answer to every question, the way out of every misery.
Someday I will conquer her, and then I will have nothing left. Or is it that which holds me back? I do not know. And she continues to gaze into my eyes – and in her eyes I see myself: hesitant, worn out, wondering if I have the courage to seek the answers I so desperately need.
I have a mistress.
She is my mind.