Diary of an Obsession – A modern Minnesong by a perfectly imperfect brain

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	Let me sing you a song of a man so fair – OK, he does have kind of darker hair. Reddish, maybe? A copper-street-dog-blond-brownish-wreck? But sometimes definitely straight, long, sleek and black.
	Let me sing you a song of a man with a face that’s the sweet, happy resting place of so many pens that once lived in my pencil case. Their tips broke at the sharp corners of the split cheeks’ crease. They now surely rest in peace.
	Let me sing you a song of a man’s lips right smack in the center of these split cheeks’ dips. Disapproving flat line, bad boy’s smirk, curved like the Moon, I could just bite – oh no, that comes way too soon.
	Let me sing you a song of a man with hands, five fingers a piece, long, and slender, and well, a man’s. He can do magical stuff with these, I am sure of it like mmhh – pointing at things and holding on to a guitar bit.
	Let me sing you a song of a man’s body so fine though *checks the watch* there isn’t really the time. Yet, let me tell you, he got moves *fans herself* I need air, but oh my God, please, don’t you stare!
	Let me sing you a song of that man’s body again since obviously I don’t have any restraint. Bare of visible scars won in battle for Rome or us for a peek he still gets my vote, my ticket money, and maybe a tiny squee as a plus.
	Let me sing you a song of a man’s voice. When he orders to kneel I do it, I have no choice. Just listen. Fancy antlers and mighty stick (the one in his hand) aside, the velvety sound of a stiff upper lip and a good cuppa tea has all my circuits fried.
	Let me sing you a song of a man laughing because he does it a lot more often than not. Did you know that lot & not rhyme on hot & also snot. OK, that was disconcerting.
	Let me sing you a song of a man’s heart. His kindness attracted me from the start. A body can be a piece of art, without a heart it comes down crushing, and it is nothing.
	Let me sing you a song of a man’s head. the inside that is; that’s understood without being said. There is plenty of brain and it is good for more than just ruminating other people’s thoughts again & again for evermore.
	Let me sing you a song of a man of passion. Though that surely isn’t of the latest fashion he permitted himself to care what is rare, to show what he burns for no matter that vulnerability is a dare.
	Let me sing you a song of a gifted man, he is like freaking Peter Pan. Not that he played him, at least not that I know, he just takes advantage that his inner child doesn’t grow. I love to watch whoever he chooses to be from front row (that’s a lie. It’s last row all the way to the right, always. But that didn’t rhyme.)
	Let me sing you a song of a man of the Bard. It means he keeps First Folio and Sonnets in high regard. What’s in a name? He knows it well. Every word works like a spell and not like my rhymes that are marred.
	Let me sing you a song of a man of excellent taste who usually at all performances aced until the one scene in which he got star struck by Kermit the Frog when they faced. Man, do I wish I was green.
	Let me sing you a song of a man of the puppets because yes he has it with the Muppets. He taught a Monster with a cookie not to be pushy.
	Let me sing you a song of a romantic hero but why does that only rhyme on zero? Dreamy, quixotic, starry-eyed, prosaic, it’s so old-fashioned it’s almost archaic – pero quiero. (or again hero)
	Let me sing you a song of a man who inspires I put lines down to still my desires. My pens head out in order to discover what lies underneath the facial cover and all the masks he dons.
	It’s in the eyes: intense, mysterious, sometimes menacing, curled at the edges, sparkling, full of life, and – readable?
	You see I don’t see on a regular base. There is a reason I don’t like to look people into their face. It’s confusing all this moving that takes place.
	It’s the different operational system that I run. It’s not a better or worse, just a deviant one. It’s very hospitable and kind, invites even the most minuscule bit of information into my conscious mind. I mean that is still better than none.
	It’s a bit chaotic in a noisy world though I’m constantly running on the edge of immanent overflow. That’s why I am inclined to hide in that mind that just can’t let go (not even at night).
	I guess a choice had to be made, there had to happen a bit of a downgrade before it all blew. So, I was left with no inherited clue what was said with hands and face’s aid.
	Or what’s implied when humans speak. A loss that makes me on a regular basis freak. It is far from me to question nature’s evolutionary decisions in me but nope, no good; though it makes for more diversity. And yes, that’s a good thing despite my critique.
	Ok, when you meet me you will hardly notice not when I have the energy and willingness to focus. I copy just enough of your animation to put you into your comfort zone without appearing to be a weird clone. At least I try. But it is tiring, like rhyming, to the bone.
	To avoid the expenditure I blend in with the furniture. Should you coax me into talking expect no small talk in the making facts and stories are my anchor.
	Back to faces though, and eyes. Knowing that they should tell me something is where the problem lies mainly because not all people have good intentions and are nice. And I don’t want to hurt anyone either But knowing it helped if I deciphered this features doesn’t make me wiser.
	I just get stuck analyzing and re-analyzing what’s there to see and how it matches with what I know of psychology until I end up realizing all I did was making it harder than it has to be.
	Then there are these eyes that I’m reading. This is special – he is my link to humanity. *head on desk* this is a bad, cruel joke of nature making it an unattainable creature.
	But he is there.
	His hair.
	His face.
	His lips.
	His hands.
	His body.
	His dance moves.
	His voice.
	His smile.
	His heart.
	His intelligence.
	His passion.
	His talent.
	His Shakespeare fondness.
	His hero worship.
	His teaching skills.
	His inspiration.
	His romance.
	His eyes.
	He is all that – an I can see it.

I think this is the place where I should apologize to Mr. Hiddleston, but then it is a true story. Nature likes these jokes.

What’s a true story as well is that I am on the spectrum and that’s what it means for me. But no, I don’t need to be cured from being me. What I need (and those like me on the spectrum) are friends like Sherlock’s friend Watson, aware of the differences in operational systems but willing to work to bridge the gaps because the profits from the synergy are high for both partners.