The Strategist(s)

I miss him. I mean what a mind! He had the job of handcuffing bank robbers. Or something like that. Or was he the Fireman? Anyway, Chatting to him was like standing on the roof of a moving speed train and maintaining my balance only because he challenged my mind like a blanket of wind, winding protectively about me, it seemed, but really bringing the best of retaliatory conversation out of me. And so he went off and married a girl who would make croissants with his mom. And not ask too many twisted questions. Remembering the interactions brings a smile to my lips anyway. But I wasn’t in love with the Guy. Sentimental I am. Like finding odd seashells that got picked at random. Memories. Then. Nothing. But then I know this girl who was in love with him. Yes, women have this way of linking up. And the worlds a mighty tiny place. And so, she was. And he wanted to marry her. And she said no. And regretted when it was much too late. And I felt the need to say, I told you so. But dared not. Because I knew. Because I have the bittersweet taste of the same from further down the years. And I don’t regret. I just have to make sense of the constant reminders. The meetings even now, of him and his family, with mutual friends. And knowing too much. Then. And projecting that knowledge into now. And everything. Another mind, captivating. Still, the interpretive analyst in me suggests that had I stopped along this path and found myself stuck to any encounter, I would not have had the chance for more! So here’s to the journey of eternal discovery! Lol.

Perhaps…

Welcome!

Hello World of Virtual Reads and Writes.. World of Spam and Cyber freaks, G33Ks of many tumbling dimensions. Welcome to my Book of Guy’s. This my attempt to visit the realms of sacred and profane, my list of lists, my little black book of relationship nuances and pitfalls, blessed smiling moments and heartbreak hells. Need I make mention of the fact that I am (and so consider yourself forewarned!) a rambling, erratic writer, and most pronouncedly, an insomniac. Possible companions in my entourage are varied forms of neuroses bordering closely on the psychotic. And most of all, I am the queen of cryptic. I am told that it is a female thing. Hail La Femme Fatale! So where does it all begin. The feline in me is filled with semi angst and mostly delicious delight at the prospect of unravelling this tedious ball of yarn. But do it I shall, probably over some time of weeks, maybe months, perhaps years even!

Welcome, ladies and lover’s to my Book of Guys.

The Girl in Green.