he is sitting next to me.
sometimes he speaks.
other times he simply sits there, wondering what i am up to.
and then he disappears.
only to come back late in the night.
he asks me questions that i can hardly come to terms with.
he asks me questions that i don't have answers to.
sometimes he tells me strange stories.
stories of men and beasts.
stories of love and longing.
stories of death and emptiness.
and then sometimes, he lets me speak.
he listens to me.
i tell him about my favourite memories.
i tell him about my strange fantasies and those dark nightmares that sometimes haunt me in the middle of a bright sunny day.
i tell him about the time when i was three and used to dread the stairs on the ground floor because i thought a giant lived under it.
i tell him about my fears.
he talks to me when i am driving, one of my biggest fears, and helps me relax.
sometimes i drive alone.
but most of all, he
lets me be
whenever i wish
to be left
alone.
