Own

I want to own you.

I want to draw you into my world. A world where my rules are the only rules that matter. When I first set eyes on you I make it my business to ascertain your suitability for ownership. You might only be owned in the sense of being a tertiary source which I interact with the once, but in that moment, I own you and I own the fuel that flows from you.

I wish to brand you as my property. My appliance. My plaything. I own you and this means that nobody else does. I have exclusive rights.

I may designate you the role of secondary source, should you make the grade and you become mine, subject to the unwritten contract that governs you and I. You are to be loyal, obedient, compliant and a provider of fuel.

If you are to be my primary source, that coveted position of supplier-in-chief of the most precious and desired fuel then you also must be owned. You must be subjected to my total and hegemonic control. Once I decide that you are the one, I will not stop. Once that light has turned green, once the first tantalising drops of your fuel have begun to be sucked up by me, there is no hope for anything else.

You must be mine. I must own you.

You at think that I look on you with love-lorn eyes. Indeed I do as I turn my precious orbs into the mirrors which give you what you want to see. Behind their silvery gaze, my machined machinations are forming. I am absorbing how you smile, how your wrinkle your nose, how you play with your hair on the left hand side of your head, never the right. I listen to the way you say ‘scone’ – do you say it so it rhyme with tone or with gone? Every word that will come from your mouth will belong to me. I want to know everything about you. Every facet of your life must now belong to me. When my hand touches you and you feel that jolt of electricity between you, that is my connection with you as I begin to download your life.

It is true that I have already screened you, probed you life from a distance, made enquiries and observed before launching my take-over bid. I have done my homework but now I want to dominate, conquer and subsume. I must envelop you in my world for then I can be sure that you will respond as I require. Loyal, reliable and functional.

Steadily I drain your identity from you, consuming it for my own use. This is part of the process of owning you. I know no boundaries, I see no limits, I recognise no restraint. I have decided that you are to belong to me and thus this is what must happen with the steady and incremental accumulation of what you are. I am plugged into you, the ultimate parasite which sucks the life from you. Your money becomes my money, your house becomes my house, your friends become my appliances. There is no real me. There is no substance and thus I must steal what you are in order to give the appearance of substance.

The only way I understand to do this is to own you. Make you part of the fabricated world that I have woven. This dazzling fiction fools so readily and as I part the curtain and beckon you in to my wonder land, you accept and once inside you become mine. The real world is left behind. The real world of rules, standards, procedures and fairness is no longer applicable to you. I own you now and as a consequence you are subject to my capricious nature, the arbitrary application of my diktats and pronouncements. None of it will make any sense to you when you start to realise what it happening but it will be too late by then. You assimilation into me will be so far gone that you may just well scream and the only voice you will hear will be mine.

My ownership means I tell you who to speak to and who to ignore. My ownership means that dress is wrong and that one is right until it is the other way around. Yesterday is tomorrow which becomes today. You think Josef K endured the Kafkaesque nightmare of nothing making sense? You ain’t seen nothing yet.

I must control everything. My space, time and the environment around you. This is why to you I seem to operate as if I have no concept of time, but that is because I do not operate to Greenwich Mean Time but rather Being Mean Time. I compartmentalise, shifting between worlds which must never connect, where the players and actors inside of them move to my direction. They dance to the tune that my invisible pipe plays. I must not leave anything to chance. I do not like chance. It is the ruin of me. I want predictable and eventually you will come to realise that there are few who are as predictable as my kind. We bring excitement, we bring chaos, we bring drama but it is all so predictable. The same manipulations, just variations on a theme. Some of us have more string to our dark cupid’s bow, but the poisoned arrows we fire all have the same effects. Control and fuel.

It is only by ensuring that we own you that we can be assured and convinced that you will do as we want you to, that you will not be disloyal or a traitor to us. We must plug you in to us and like some giant leech suck the very essence from you, taking your fuel, your confidence, your self-worth, your self-esteem and stripping you of them to ensure there is compliance and obedience.

I want to own so that I know I will win. I want to own you so I can exist.

I want to own you so that everything you do is as consequence of my decisions and my actions which ensure you provide me with my lifeblood whenever I demand it. You are on call and on demand, my primary source of salvation, the reason for my existence and I dare not allow the slightest chink of autonomy for fear of losing that control.

I want to own you to underline my superiority. I want to own you to remind myself that I am powerful. I want to own you so that it is repeatedly highlighted that I am the controller.

I want to own you to stop being the slave that I am.