A flaky, sticky sweet desert with delicate layers of filo dough that threaten to exfoliate, interspersed nuts, and the honey and syrup that hold it all together with the strength of spackling paste to drywall. My mind flakes and crumbles. Follow me on a city street, and filo crumbs fall behind my stride in the fashion of Hansel and Gretel. My mind betrays me. Obsessions and anxieties ensue. The person across the room is spying on me to make reports to his authority. Another wishes to commit slander and libel to destroy my name. Paranoia, yes, I know. The world decides to cut the connection between us. I float, detached and without ground on which to plant my feet. Betrayed, I am, by the very entity that is supposed to maintain bodily and emotional homeostasis.
Anxiety upon anxiety, obsession upon obsession, stack in layers of filo dough in a baklava. I am accosted, I am overwhelmed. My teetering tower threatens to topple and crumble. But for honey and syrup, I would disintegrate with the evening wind blowing through the evergreens. Honey is temperamental. An obstinate and unforgiving harvest is grainy, gritty and unpleasant to the tongue. A pure harvest is smooth and thick, reminiscent of pouring caramel to cool. The honey binding my filo, completing my self as a whole, flows from my partner. Entangled arms in embrace, a brush of the lips, the honey flows freely. It is with this honey that I build my fortress and my abode. I stack weaknesses and bind them with strength, for I can create a perfect structure built upon imperfection. For in this way, I am able to enjoy the product of the marriage of my mind with the love of others.