Little monster of mine, again you cling to me, grunting and snorting. I made you; you´re alive. I brought you forth while in search of a feeling lost, the search for the one true exclusive love, a mesmerizing fantasy character for my ego.
Propped you up, I built you from blocks of projections, delusions, expectations, and fairies; then more daydreams. I put all of it in your body, then made you my knight and protector, my keeper programmed to my desires. And yet, yet you’re a life apart in your breath, your demands, the constant needs, never to reach your fill. You must feed.
Now I see what I did and wish the scene would dissolve to nothing, but your life seed remains steadfast, as when I found it neatly packaged in temptation. ¿What to do with you, my little monster, now that I stopped tossing and turning at night, now that I see the sky from my bedroom window and can tell planets from stars? ¿Where to send the monster now?
I can only pray now that you return to the cave of your beginning, that you sleep forever, but I’m afraid your kind is not so rare, always on the lookout for souls who crave scenes created by their wild egos.
