Elucidation (n) – the act of clarification; to fully explain; remove obstacles to understanding.
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I can't do this anymore.
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You look at me with some confusion. Though I return your gaze with hesitation, inside I know exactly what I'm doing, exactly how to manipulate you. So I return the gaze, but almost instantly break it, tearing away to look in the general direction of a tree, or a cloud, or the grass. It doesn't really matter really. It's irrelevant. But, regardless, it has the desired effect.
I'm not really sure whether you realise you've been puppeted, with me pulling on your metaphorical strings to direct you this way and that, but you respond the way I want you to anyway, and reach over to ask what's wrong. Almost instantly, I feel guilty, and say nothing's wrong, which is, of course, truthful – but you (mistakenly) don't buy it for a second and reach over to lift my chin, forcing my gaze onto yours.
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The feeling of your lips on me is something that I can't possibly describe. I think it devalues the emotion to try and put it into words – and so, logically, I don't. Because that is my role. I am the logical one.
So I am madly in love with a man. With you. Something so incredibly beautiful and at the same time something that scares me out of my wits, for fear of it (you) suddenly leaving me. Or you deciding that you'd made a horrible mistake. I can't be alone. I'm not built for being alone. Intelligence isn't designed to be a one-man (or, rather, woman) talent. What use are ideas when there's no one to share them with?
So I am madly in love with a man. With you. But it is a cruel situation, because of the paradoxes that plague my overworked imagination. I feel deeply resentful that you don't see through this protective shield I put around myself, but also work harder to make sure you cannot. I like to pretend it makes sense, but I know, in my heart (because, I think bitterly, I know so many things) that it doesn't.
But that is my role. I am the logical one.
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I know how much these stupid games of mine are wearing you down. I'm not going to pretend to not. I can see the hurt in your eyes, the confusion. But, as ever, you are the Great Illusionist, and as soon as I see into your emotions, you lock them away and replace them with a smile, so that I almost think I've imagined it. But it's happened too often now for me to seriously consider that my imagination is running wild.
I know I'm not coherent, but I don't really want to be. Being coherent means having to express my thoughts with clarity. And that means I have to explain.
But maybe I should explain. Maybe it's time.
It's goddamn scary.
But maybe, I should clarify.
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The words tumble out of my mouth carelessly, as though they are not representative of anything of real importance. We might as well have been discussing the weather. But we weren't.
Well, we weren't.
I've always been the logical one. The coherent one. The one who could elucidate with ease. But now, suddenly, I find myself lost for words, as if the ability for speech has suddenly escaped me, and it's the most lonely experience of my life.
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You could see it coming, I knew you could (because, again, I know so many things), but it doesn't stop the gasp of shock from reaching my lips and escaping quietly. I thought that I knew you. Because I know so many things. But I don't.
I don't even know myself.
Not like I used to. Not anymore.
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I can't do this anymore.
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