I don’t know how to describe exactly what I am doing. Time is flying by so quickly, quicker than I intend it to in fact, or so I believe. I feel like I am exactly where she wants me to be be. But the way she keeps calling my name on paper, taunting, threatening, loving and imploring, yet with double-fold the anger, keeps me at loss.  She calls me Kareem. I admit I was nameless before her by why Kareem? However, for some reason, I have developed a liking to that name, so I decided not to argue and to keep it. As simple as that.

What makes her love it so much to the extent of obsession? you might ask. Well, I have asked myself the same question and the answer is still to come my way.  Is she aware of her obsession? What is so special about that name that she named a mere shadowless existence after it?

But I never get the answers. She is always the one to pose the questions, I to answer them. I am not sure whether I like this equation/situation. But I find myself helpless nonvoluntarily, as if she were the one in power and not the other way around. I even doubt she knows this.

So now what? Shall I leave he to her fantasy? Do I tell her that I am the one who made her up inside my head instead of the other way around? But then if I do, What would become of her? of me? of her writings and mine?

I digress. Why is that table moving thus? The light’s reflection on its glass surface is blinding my vision with one clichéd image after another. But I will have to ignore the shadows behind my pen, beside my table, beneath my words and under my eye-lids. They all do not exist for she is all existence to me. Did I say that out loud? That was weak and pathetic of me, do forgive me.

But sometimes, when I am alone, I do wish I can turn the reality switch back on.  I wish I could remember my name. I wish I can tell her my real name, whatever it might be. I think she might like it. Could it be that she guessed it right? But no, no one is that lucky, not even her. But if I were able to tell her what they really call me, then I would finally be able to give her a name too. I don’t know if any of you have noticed, but she is, up till now, nameless. Don’t you ever entertain the idea of meeting incognito’s real character? (Does our name actually define us? is that why she picked Kareem?) Ok I am going to have to stop here, because by now I think you are sick of my blabbing. I am overthinking, I shall stop and turn to more important matters.

I remember her once saying that all she wants is a cup of coffee and a conversation. As I busy myself with counting endless empty cups of coffee laid OCD-style on her table, I fail to greet her, to comfort her (not that she ever needed any), to utter a single word to her.

Don’t get me wrong, we do talk, she and I. But it seems that every single conversation we ever had, we had inside her head, or mine for that matter. Don’t ask me to tell you exactly which skull we have been invading.

Now, if you excuse me, I have to go win some arguments.

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