Originally Posted: 12/17/08
Miles and miles have come and gone between us, but time seems to stand still. I find myself in the same tired old scenes, quietly waiting for the moment to pass and the comfort to return. I feel cramped in my skin and trapped in the seconds, like something too large in a cage far too small. It isn't a kiss or a touch that I long for, despite the romantic side-stepping and the pretty poetic metaphor. I want something, I need something, but what it is escapes me. Desires you can't identify always seem to linger longer than the things you just can't have.
I'd like to see you smile, because it will reassure me. Everything is alright, except the things that aren't, but they have less to do with our choices and more to do with the circumstances under which we make them. I'd like to see you smile, because I like to see people smile and you have always been one of my favorites. You're important in ways I can't readily tell the world or myself. I don't think that's asking for much, and it surely isn't pining. Its much easier to deal with. I'd even like to see you taken by fits of passion, to watch the way that tingling, rushing feeling of pleasure ripples out from the center and catches your entire body in the aftershock. Not under me, I think. But close by, just on the periphery.
I like to fantasize that everything will work out well. That I'll be struck with good luck across the board and all the facets of my life will turn up roses, blooming wildly in the sunshine that has become my world. I fantasize about having people and things when I want them and need them, and not being burdened by the unclean folk that seem to latch onto the idea of me and leech the goodwill from my bones. I dream that all my dreams come true, and I fantasize that all my fantasies are realized. But people like me have to make our own luck and, crafty as I am, I've never been very good at building things. I can fix them and destroy them, but the building rarely has anything to do with me.
I'm too horny to be in public.
Sometimes I think that I say shocking things for some sinister purpose. Not because I have no filter and no concept (or care) of what's offensive to others, and not because shocking statements make my people laugh and shake their heads. Sometimes I think I say shit intentionally to piss people off. That I'm laying down challenges everywhere I go and one day about three billion sons of bitches will show up to my house and mercilessly beat the hell out of me. They'd probably have good reason, because they wouldn't understand that, to me, everything is waiting to be ridiculed. It isn't that I hate it all, its just that I can laugh at anything. Then again, maybe I'm just deluding myself and I really am just a jackass. If that's the case, then you can all suck my dick.
The dog is behind me losing his fucking mind. I think he wants attention, but I'm simply not willing to give it. That's a good feeling, knowing you have some kind of power over a lesser creature's happiness. It makes you feel like a badass, and you can choose to be a benevolent badass or a douchebag badass. Either way, nothing can take away how great you feel about yourself and your ultimate power. Well, except death. If the subject dies, then there really is no happiness to be granted or witheld. The fucker won't care either way.
Loving someone is easy. Sometimes, I think its too easy. Shouldn't there be some kind of obstacle course or prerequisite for that shit? I mean, love isn't just a basic emotional investment. It requires time and thought and (typically) money and energy. Its a huge event, a big fucking deal. But there are no preliminary requirements for it. No class you need to take, no trials to overcome, no lengthy and ultimately pointless quests to undergo. Nope. One day someone walks into your life and thirty seconds later you love them. Or you're in love with them. There is a slight difference, I guess. At least where most people are concerned. I'm strange, so I'm a little bit in love with all the people I love. That sounded redundant as hell. Still, there should at least be some kind of certification for it. She said, honey baby, you got a license for love?
The reason I bring it up, is because love is complicated and difficult to navigate. There are different kinds and levels and pitfalls and facets and mind-raping, ideal-warping shit like that. Its like an enormous cavern, filled with a fucking hedgemaze created by Charles Manson. And if that wasn't hard enough to fing your way through, there are also randomly placed minotaur to fucking smash your head in if you should wander into a bad area. And spike pits. And zombies. And a herd of pissed off dobermans are chasing you through it. That's love. But its also wonderful and warm, so the maze has flowers growing out of the walls and the sun overhead is shining (did I say it was in a cavern? Its in a cavern with its own sky and celestial bodies,then) and the day is as wonderful as it can be. Plus, anytime you want to cum you just think about it and everything will stop while you are granted the most incredible sex anyone has ever had. Then the dobermans tear off a hunk of your leg and you get your ass running again. That's love. And it should require at least an introductory course and a proficiency exam.
Since I'm Walt Whitman reincarnated, and I therefore fall in love about every ten seconds, I'm pretty interested in the subject. I'm also pretty experienced. I've loved people that have hardly cared that I was breathing and people who have loved me back with equal ferocity. I have loved people who thought they shared my feelings, and people who thought they did not. I have loved and had it linger, and I have had passions that quickly burned out. I have tried and failed to win some over, I have won some without trying at all. I have been wooed and wanted and rejected and taken. I have been pulled in every direction and pushed away in one. I have done it all, and it never seems to be the same twice.
Even so, some are more memorable than others. Most of them fade away to names and little snips of memories. Little scars that you look at every once in a while and only vaguely recall where they came from. Others linger far closer to the mind, they remain with you like near-death experiences or that one time you bled for twelve hours. Or that time your mom finally, finally got you that new thing you wanted and begged and pleaded for after months of excruciating waiting. They can be like the best or worst of experiences, or you can almost completely forget them. I've got more than my share of both, I think, but I want more. I want more connections, more memories, more scars and names, more kisses and more fights, more scents to recall and more skin to touch and memorize. I want more passionate, fruitless, frantic sex and I want more talks spent holding and being held and more emotional blows to my over-inflated ego. I want more.
I want...something.
Yours,
S.R.
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