I couldn’t help but smile when I added the “gentle” tag to this blog entry. Yes, because fantasizing about stalking a man is gentle. Imagining injecting a shrinking formula into his lovely, manly neck is gentle. Watching him fall into deep terror as his body shrinks and his clothes don’t, is super gentle. Extracting him from his life without a goodbye-and-thank you note to his family and friends is… well, so gentle.
And let’s not even go into what happens after that. One gentle tsunami after another. When gentleness can be translated into “he didn’t die, after all”, and “it will heal in a few weeks”, and “who needs sleep anyway”; when love and tenderness look like rainbows on his skin; when he feels like the smallest axis on an enormous, turning world… that’s when I know I’ve stretched a word so long, so thin, so precarious in meaning, so intricate in pattern that the slightest breeze makes it glint in the utter darkness, like a spiderweb gone wrong.
Is this feeling what you little people call… guilt?