You will wait for me, and you will think about waiting for me. You will think about the why. Why you

You will wait for me, and you will think about waiting for me.

You will think about the why. Why you are waiting, but more importantly why I’ve made you wait. Why you're willing to wait, and why I make you willing to wait. You will ask yourself what you’re thinking, how you’ve been driven to this point, thrown to the edge of the cliff only to willingly throw yourself off it, just to see if you can fly, whether the audacity of that minute percentage is enough to defy gravity. You will ask why it worked, why you’re flying. 

You will think about me. Of course you will think about me. You can think about little else, even when so much else is pressing down on the walls of your brain, a brainless horde of stress that’s trying to shatter this house that we’ve built inside your mind. And though the walls buckle and strain, and though you might imagine cracks, might suppose that it is creaking and moaning, somehow they stay away, those problems. Even though you have this time to think, your mind doesn’t let you. You wait, and you think about waiting. 

And you think about me coming back. What I might do. What I might not do. I’ve kept you guessing this long, and that’s fed your uncertainty like nothing else. To be unpredictable is to be exciting, and no one has excited you like this, no one has managed to elude your hypotheticals, the projections your brain throws before your mind’s eye, a hundred feet of luminescence. But it’s just white light, empty and blank. Your mind has nothing on me. An empty file. That terrifies you like nothing else. 

That arouses you like nothing else. 

You think about why you’re waiting. You don’t know. You know.