my feelings for someone were not reciprocated

Sadly, my feelings for someone were not reciprocated. It took me so long to understand that we are from two worlds. I refrained from talking about it and seeing the actual object till I feel safe from the possible emotional torture again. This is not the first time that my feelings for the target persons were not reciprocated. Sad, sad, sad. When will the right person come into my life?

In a particular moment, an coincidence, you may say, juxtaposes your life with mine. And that is the beginning of my adventurous trip proven to be a downfall, in hindsight. Dissimilar lives appear in the same space hence the unexpected torture began. I wrested control away from you, a image created by my own repression. I read you in terms of the images presented in front of me rather than the YOU suppose to be.

You tear yourself out of the context of the you. You exist only as silent subject, or silent object, depends from who is speaking. I wish you could be one day a subject who do talking, yet, you seem to be pleasant to be an object of gaze.  I see no link between the images you represent and the true you. When the process of fascination occurs, you turn into a factory of myth-making. And, I am the director of the making. Myths keep coming out of the factory. The ideas shot directly from my mind and reproduce through the space of the physical you. I attempted to resurrect  you by restoring you to your original life context, but in vain. Because you do not need to be resurrected and there is no sign of your original life context since you carefully live in your concealed circle.

Those myths temporarily heal my solitude.  I am intent to contour the authentic you. I read you against many possible backgrounds. I was so eager to partake in your life. Purloined, your images are reproduced in the factory of myth-making.  reproduce and represent. Why? because it is merely impossible to comprehend the protean subject that I am so found of. therefore, I could only reproduce you and represent you. I then read you from my grasp, a kind of mise en abime.

While I am walking into the myth, tasting the flavour of death, the other I is trying hard to getting out of there, to resuscitate the I in reality. The double-edged process torn me apart. While I engaged in rescue my life, I destroyed my life simultaneously.