Blank Stares and Track Marks

Originally Posted: 2/18/09

"She's got eyes like Zapruder, a mouth like heroin."

I'm a flaw in the construct, composed of little impurities. Flecks of dust that catch in the light and hang, suspended, in defiance of the natural order. I do not obey what I do not condone. I can not be controlled, much less commanded. As the miles race beneath me, I feel less and less human. I feel less like myself and more like something sinister, something hideous. The notions are vague and I will describe them vaguely. I'm afraid I want you, but I'm terrified that you'll want me someday. It would ruin you, I think, as it has ruined lesser creatures. Not for lack of trying or desire, I just never seem to need it. I crave things, but I never rely on them. Reliance is dependence and dependence is addiction. I won't wander down that road again. I still haven't left the nightmares far enough behind.

It's 2 in the morning here. I don't wonder what you're doing, because I already know. All the same, I prefer imagination to knowledge. Sometimes lies are more alluring than the truth. I'd rather imagine you in the arms of someone strange, someone slightly dangerous that will do things to your body that leave you trembling, exhausted, satisfied. The kind of thing I wish I could be. A shadowed face, callused fingers pressing themselves into satin skin, a harshness that is as uninviting as it is pleasurable. He probably smells faintly of sweat and smoke, masked by cologne and the intriguing, implacable scent of arousal. That scent that gets into your skin, invades your senses, and commands you to give in. The kind of creature that anyone could resist, but no one will.

It's strange, the way the mind meanders. One moment you're dwelling on things that, not long ago, seemed so very crucial. Those things are suddenly unimportant. You think of something else, maybe something mildly poetic. Forgive the cryptic nature of this, none of it is terribly vital. It's really only a little more than the half-mad ramblings of someone too far from anything familiar. Home feels far away. Strange. Here, nestled close to the cradle of my life, I feel like an outsider. The sensation is almost enough to send me racing away, but it interests me. On a spiritual, primal level I want more of it.

And then I think about love. I like to ponder love, in all its facets. Mostly, I really hope I never find it again. I don't make that wish out of some misguided belief that I'm destined to die alone, or any selfless notion that anyone I love will be terribly mistreated. Rather, I enjoy my privacy too much to compromise it. I'm selfish and guarded. I like it that way. It makes me mysterious, and that gets me laid. That gets me closer to heaven.

If God wants people to be happy, I think he should advocate prostitution. Clean, safe prostitution. Or, at the very least, casual promiscuity. Nothing makes people happier on a more basic level than sex. It's constantly on our minds, in one form or another. For me it has become essential to my personality insofar as my peers are concerned. I used to think all that bullshit was some kind of front I put up to disguise the insecure, emotionally scarred badass that lay underneath. These days, I think the rest of it is a poorly constructed disguise for the fact that I don't care for much in this world.

Before you start worrying, let me assure you that I'm just in an introspective mood. These are good fun because they let me say things that are probably only half true without being outright lies. It isn't constructing thoughts, it's an excercise in just writing them as they come. Letting my filthy, crowded innards out into some medium where people can choose to observe or abstain.

Back to the sex thing, though. That's important. I have to wonder if words or actions are more crucial to seduction. Can the simple existence of someone be enough to kick those base instincts in, or is there some kind of course that needs to be run first? If a display of physical prowess can do it, why not a piece of poetry? Both of them are performed toward the same end. This, of course, comes from the head of someone who measures his acceptance from people by how close they are to crawling in the sack with him. Then again, if you figure out a better way to measure human interaction you let me know.

"She'll never cover up what we did with her dress. She said, 'kiss me, it'll heal but it won't forget.'"

I'll take you anywhere as long as you promise not to forgive me. I'd much rather see you patch up the holes than cover them up and replace them. Forgiveness is for the narrow-minded. Retribution is for the strong. I'm all blank stares and track marks. Figuratively speaking. Decide what that means for yourself. I'm one-tenth fact and nine-tenths interpetation.

Keep Breathing,
S.R.