The image of who you were exploded in a dizzying array of pieces like chunks of burning flesh disassociating from the bones of a destructive masochist.
So divergent is the split between who my mind had perceived you to be and how you now appear (subject to the bomb of truth) that I struggle to reconcile the contradicting images towards an appropriate decisive response.
To question you as you stand before me, morbidly exposed, is to naively expect a reincarnation of the you I once perceived.
An untrustworthy perception which would align with a supposedly truthful you, all proof of which currently follows variant parabolic thrusts upward to subsequently slap the sand at my feet.
My incapacity to formulate a response stems from the innate incongruity with who you were and what you did.
The constant is that you did do it, so I am left to surmise that the pre-explosion image of you is the variable in this equation.
You were merely an illusion.
Perhaps I am at fault.
For it could have been the unfulfilled desire of a parched soul (rendered unreliable by its thirst for the refreshment of a pure heart) which manufactured the mirage of your springs.
Perhaps you cunningly took advantage of my delusion and combined it with an appropriate appearance so that, together, we established the facade.
It could be, as well, that you are not at fault here.
Well at least not the fault of misrepresentation.
I discerned within you the glistening potentiality with which I interacted.
Sanctimoniously, I supposed that the future you would be the present you if only by virtue of my faith in you.
And then there is the possibility of corruption.
An impure introduction to your once pure person-hood.
Explanations aside, the retrospective reality is my reverence towards you.
An image I loved.
Then there was the boom. And all was changed.
The manifestation of my delusion/deception/interpretation was shattered.
Spewed, like flying body parts across my field of vision.
The pungent stench of disappointment erupted at once.
My stomach curled at the distasteful flavour of the air.
Shock chilled me to the core, causing the hairs on my arm to stand on edge.
Mistrust blew across my consciousness.
I wanted to embrace you, but I feared your sores.
I was urged to run from you, yet I hesitated.
You are not who you were/could have been/had been/are to be.
You are who you are.
I wonder who you are.
What I see before me is the pathetically limp image of a friend now dead to me.
No longer can you lie to me...
But, given the impossibility of forensic reconstruction, who will ever reveal the truth?
© Chereese La-vonne Ricketts 2013