I feel something approaching me.
From time to time my abysms shift.
As of now I do not specifically wonder where my sexual craving went, but where it came and comes from.
This will be my first follow-up. The Art of not getting laid had to root within an inspirational force deep inside my confusion.
– On Passion –
I do not yet mean the wet, sweaty and drooling, dirty kind. Neither do I allude the one filled with thorn crowns and concepts of love and betrayal and an over grandiloquent talk of trinity. This shall be about the enthusiastic and fertile version of this phenomenon.
The one that makes us ignore principles. The one that also builds them. A form that allows recklessness and perpetuation. The kind of passion that allows us to get lost in our daily chores, life and existence.
It is an inspirational force. A blessing and a curse in all its expressions.
– Motivation as it’s predecessor –
For all that is worth I was and still am a pain in the ass to be motivated.
Trying new things? No problem.
Doing things in general? No, thank you.
In the past even music needed profound whys and wherefores to be practiced.
An atonement to not studying enough or at all, the evasion of unpleasant conversations or other trivial components of an adolescents day. I never acquired a similar fondness of any piano, I developed towards my guitar or violin. As my first approach to music it was a deviation from realities annoyances. I could not be motivated to practice unless I exchanged the motivation I had to assemble. Maybe a bargain, a diplomatic gesture as far as I am concerned.
I feel the compulsion to lie now and state that I am changed. That I somehow became a man of music and writing and mental illness and that is who I am. Everything should be fun and games from there on.
I am afraid not even a peripheral convergence comes close to reality.
The following is one of the strains of thought, that conspires and undergirds others in their efforts of keeping me awake at night.
– Assemble the Avengers –
I just don’t seem to love anyone or anything sufficiently
to be acting passionately for a consecutive amount of time about it. I did try. Again and again I ran against this wall. When other people got involved even more so.
I can write as if all this would not pose a problem, but written words transform only reluctantly into feeling thoughts. In times like these I highly doubt they do so at all.
In my reality I have developed ways to simulate a similar sensation. I feel and felt it awfully well.
Some need blue pills in order to stay perpendicular all night, I recruit old friends in bottles and papers to permit affinity. When drunk I seem to be passionate.
Let me put this right. When drunk I can simulate the characteristics of being passionate. Under the influence of this drug the stories I make up become reality. I become the hero of my story and as such I do what I want or need without consequential contemplation. The drunken hours are the deliberate ones, in which I am able to argue for aeons just for the sake of arguing. All the while ignoring a beautiful woman at my side, desperately craving my attention.
In these hazy times I love nothing more than music, writing, arguing, being sociable, even to dance and as it should be women.
– Off to the wet and dirty Part –
To me sober, physical contact was possible on rare occasions. At lucky instances only and always combined with an ostensibly insurmountable demand in conversance and intimacy. These amounts were vastly reduced by a collaboration of Johnny, Michail and Mary Jane.
The devilish brood they are, they almost always knew how to get me out of my blues and into well another kind of blues. But the fun kind! The one that gets the girls and me around town.
These brothers and sisters in arms bridged my phases of loneliness without comparison. Even if that meant an involvement of touching, hugging, kissing and all that creepy stuff, children cover their eyes, when confronted with in movies.
Drugs managed to make me ignore the fact, that I do not feel at ease faced with a desire of propinquity in my favour.
– Dancing with myself –
I am not particularly sad about it, but I often wondered, why my past exhibits relatively few relationship experiences.
Honestly. Look at me! If I could then I would marry my own sorry ass and screw my brain day in and day out of the blue. Every time I think about it, a grin flashes over my face. In fact a whole romantic comedy drifts before my eyes. Pick your favorite one and eliminate the girl out of the equation:
First scene – Slow music playing. A man sitting on a blanket, having a picnic, with gentle eyes and a comforting smile feeding himself strawberries.
Next scene – He is joking and wildly laughing, having an amazing time riding a tandem on his own.
Next Scene – A lonesome table on a beach. A single candle in an old wine carafe on the burgundy tablecloth.
Next Scene – A bedroom filled with candles and rose petals. Close-up to the widened eyes of a man in panic in relation to the question whether to loosen the belt around his neck or cherish the pent-up arousal through autoerotic asphyxiation and bring this job to a fucking end. One way or the other.
The silent film era is sadly over, but Mr. Chaplin would have mad a great self-hanged man in a hotel room.
– Why does it always rain on me? –
I do not wonder any more. Who I am and why I am, where I am.
The real me wants to be alone and without passion. This is no sudden realization I knew this for quite a while. I constantly fail in perceiving its dimension and the ramifications it imposes on me.
I sabotage myself on a regular basis
I do not want to be happy.
I do not want to be with someone.
I do not want to get along.
I do not want to be healed.
I do not want to be.
I live because I refuse to acknowledge inferiority. I live because I am overweening. I live because I have to.
I live because everyone does and naturally I deem myself superordinated.
Arrogance seems to be in these rough episodes the only anchor and motivator I have left. For now it keeps me bound to a path. If it is mine I might be lucky enough to see some time.