I'd do all of this for you

Almost a year since I last wrote. I think loneliness is inspirational when it comes to these things. And I haven't had much of that.

Relationships are so consuming. You put so much energy, so much trust, so much of yourself into a boy. And you lose so much of your own depth. I guess you just get out of your own head and it feels good -- you share and you learn and you connect and you discover. You care and you are cared for. But at some point you reach the other person's wall and they reach yours, and the two of you hold hands and hang out between these two walls where everything is safe and calm. The calmness of it all is unnerving. It's so suspiciously shallow. I've been itching to get back behind my wall. Where the girl is running so fast and her head is exploding and she is always yearning. That's the girl who writes these neurotic rambling thoughts by the way.

But most of all, I want to get behind his wall. To prove to him, and to myself, that there is a place for me there. I want to climb into every one of his wounds and let them bleed and hear him scream while I do the cleansing. When I was first discovering him, my emotions would make me shake. Beautiful boy. There was so much affection, I thought I would smother him with it. But he's not letting me dig any deeper. His composure is trampling on my passion.

I don't know how to release it. Sometimes I sting him just to see the raw bite. Sometimes I withdraw myself away just to feel his magnetism draw me back.




(Bad) translation

Unconditional Hugs

http://www.theartofloveandintimacy.com/2007/03/basic-need-for-touch.html

"Don’t underestimate the power of an unconditional hug–even a 30-second one. Ordinary touching is very important. But a 20-minute unconditional hug–that could save many marriages."

Ice cream at 1 am.

Dancing in my room.



Grin.
I can't stop smiling.

I am so composed.

Why no tears?
Tired? Distraught? Not comprehending? Indifferent?
Probably a combination of all. Too many blows, can't go any lower, can't take anything seriously. Can't even get angry.
And not worth it.

Aye, there's the rub. That's what caused most of this mess. I don't feel angry, or hurt, or powerful or vengeful or sad or mad. I don't feel sorry for myself. I feel stupid. Comprimising standards for the sake of familiarity.

Angry outbursts point to a weakness. I may feel mistreated, but I don't have the energy, nerves, or desire to lash out. I had less of an emotional investment. So now, when it comes down to it, I don't give a fuck.

This is my favourite -- "you crave it inside to feel like a piece of meat and your self value stripped away". Such heartfelt prose. It's a "slab of meat". Or maybe that's a reference to the Scorpions song in which the term "piece of meat" refers to a male penis. Better yet, call me some sort of vegetable.

But maybe everyone is right. This is where it ends. Favourable turnout for me I suppose. Given the circumstances, it should have been worse. Thank you Jupiter, the giver of gifts and luck.

Really, I am undeserving.

I feel like a brick wall. Everything bounces off of me.

Guilt

"Inhibition doesn't grow on trees, you know -- takes patience, takes concentration, takes a dedicated and self-sacrificing parent and a hard-working attentive little child to create in only a few years' time a really constrained and tight-ass human being."
- Philip Roth

So if I end up like The Monkey it will be my father's fault.


Here's something else I relate to:
"The coincidences of dreams, the symbols, the terrifying laughable situations, the oddly ominous banalities, the accidents and humiliations, the bizarrely appropriate strokes of luck or misfortune that other people experience with their eyes shut, I get with mine open! ... I have a life without latent content. The dream thing happens!"

My reaction to the lowly and simple -- to what is governed by the ego and the id, the selfish and ridiculous -- is ecstasy! I pass judgement, I curse and I rage, but I come. And in the face of butterflies I am frigid. How's that for an indicator of unconscious repressions, eh? I can't get off because I am sincere!


Alright, enough with the psychoanalytic melodrama. Frida Kahlo said "I used to drink to drown my sorrow, but it learned to swim." Everything is therapeutic and every therapy is limited.

All the way down

http://www.thecakesale.com/lyrics/allthewaydown.htm



Какой милый кошмарик.

I don't swallow