Verity and unity.

When merely tracing the outline of who she is, the concept of her being slowly substantiates in my mind – not a veracious image but an idiosyncratic portraiture, not to the world nor to anyone else but me – and it receives its brilliant breath by virtue of both a few limited encounters and, more so, by the sustenance of my scrupulous ideation. I mold the imprint of her and embrace and look at it from every angle amenable to extolling her, until she inevitably develops into an object of adoration amputated from the world and as such severed from the realm of physical potential I gradually come to desire and loathe simultaneously. If concepts comprised reality, perfection would be rapidly attained with no further qualification besides soft bedding in my head topped with cushy pillows fluffed by a perfervid stream of emotion emanating from the depths of my chest. The unity intrinsic in the holism of my thought renders the exterior world crumbled in comparison; a scattered scaffolding of which I have no blueprint, a frighteningly vivacious collective dancing uncontrollably before my eyes – might I someway bring it to order? How could I when we are now subject, then object, but never both one at the same time.