another day. i am conscious of certain things, like this routine that seems like a lifeline to me. there are certain things that i do that are private, and other things that are public. most of the private things are somehow essential to me, even though they are things that cannot or should not be shared. they are also the irrational things, the things that i cannot justify by reason. thankfully, they are not things that hurt other people, or at least, they do not hurt people physically. perhaps they hurt concepts. perhaps they hurt my conceptions of things, and in that sense, they are not innocent. but they are necessary nonetheless.
i think i should write about such things, about the things that compel us, but do not necessarily make sense. but these are not things i am necessarily comfortable writing about. sexuality, for instance. that is something that is difficult for me to convey, largely because i am- it is hard for me to discuss such things. even to myself. there is something- i don't know- still shameful about it. particularly for a male, but particularly so for someone like me, who by nature tends to keep things at a distance, and tends to only look at and deal with the surfaces of things...
i don't know why, or what was wrong with me, to not be seduced over the course of my life. some might consider it a strength, but it really wasn't. there was such a naivette, and an oblivion, to me. and even if i had been aware (and i know, i know, a part of me was aware, or else i would not be able to look upon such events with- nostalgia?), it simply was not possible for me to summon the desire at those particular moments. there were images of hair, and the smell, and the darkness, and i simply wanted things to be clean. stainless steel. it is only later, in those other moments, that i can summon the feeling, and the fire. it is so strange, how there is not that synchronicity. how we often do not live up to those moments. and it is not that i would not want to have had something happen. it's just that the timing was not perfect. it's that i am two (or more) different people, and that was the wrong person for the wrong moment. a split infinity, as it were. i wish i could be whole, and consistent. but maybe then i wouldn't be honest. because honesty is what fragments us. (or is it?)
to look upon the gaze of a woman, to see the want in it. it is difficult. is there a desire sparked only from the impossibility of a woman? why is it that there is something that dies when that gaze is present, and there is a vulnerability? it is almost as though we desire the impossible. and when it is no longer impossible, but possible, perhaps the proximity to something so ignored and despised, perhaps it is when the desired occupies the same reality as myself, that it becomes- sullied, somehow. and no longer- wanted. why is this? and is there some sort of deception in the capacity to act upon desire? as though the only way is to pretend that it is the other story, that other reality, that one where desire can still live and breathe?
why are we so broken?
the coldness is on my back. i write. sometimes the ramblings of my son (who is in the same room) annoy me. i no longer feel obligated to- correct or train or educate him. he is (and perhaps always was) his own person.
tonight, i'm not sure what else to write about. people. certain people. i guess i feel a certain disgust towards religiosity. the fact that it allows some people to "stand above" and speak with authority. it disgusts me, about that. the capacity to judge. i guess that is why i'm reluctant to join any group. because it posits itself as above others. and allows judgment. which is not true. i prefer to remain outside, not to be difficult, but to maintain the capacity for truth and compassion...
and their fucking "bravery." it is not bravery, but the reliance upon the fiction of the group. socially derived notions of right and wrong. i hate that. i hate that beyond hating.
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