And I am still not pleased with me, with what I am doing, how I do it and the purpose or the mystic WHY itself. I am not satisfied. Not happy. Happy. Happiness. Intense joy. Smiley face. I will never be ok with me. After nearly 38 years I had some moments of insights. I am tolerating me so far. I don´t hate, dislike or despise me. Even if I do something wrong, deep deep inside of me there is sitting a riotous kid, shitting on everything that feels. No, don´t love him, he gonna fucks you up. It´s a strange relationship, me and myself. I am kind of exhausted to have them around all the time. Actually my whole life! That sucks. I mean, all this moaning so called self-reflecting. Desires, lust, addictions, expectations, beliefs for no relief, habits, suspiciousness, fears and tears, traumas and a stand-alone brainmachine, following a voice I never heard. Of course, doesn´t all this sounds amazingly consumptive, pain in the ass, with my head deep deep inside, greeting the riotous kid, shitting.
Life! I didn´t get it. Is it a quiz game? Can you loose something? Probably your life? What is it all about and why I keep asking these pathetic kitchy bullshit questions?
I don´t have to like me, right? What is more intense and time-consuming than liking something? – Think about facebook! Ah, I can´t like anyway. Why like if you wanna love?! Tall, handsome, wize, interesting, humble, kind, asshole, wanker, dildo, twat, maniac… think what you want, I got my own problems.
Life is eating us from the outside. I eat from the inside. Shredded myself and stuffed me with. Like a compressed pig in its own gut. German sausage.
I am bored. Life, time is not worth to trash. I´d love to share with myself some intimacy, without interrogating. I´d love to share a moment of intimacy, with life, with you, my love.
Three women. One night. Me in tow. Guess, what is the result.
I despise sex. Since when I can´t remember. Never loved it. I mean the physical act. I abuse more than enjoy, lean back at let it happen. Related to my self-hatred. Caused by. And too many levels to breakthrough, cutting the umbilical cord, rooting in the fertile moist plains of narcissism. What would our world look like without shame. 7 mio more? Sex is connected to suffer and passion. Suffer with passion. Conquer and occupy. To occupy. Besiege and defend. I feel so much shame for this game, for its stupidity and romanticlessness that I want to aplogize for the capture. “I didn´t mean to push you to love me.” – “Go back on your room, son.” Maybe, maybe not. But absolution doesn´t release you to cure. The problem is not solved because you accepted the complexity. A waywardness of emotions.
I miss the intimacy to gaze in a lover´s glance, even if it´s just a reflecton of an idea, vision, or desire, my desire, to touch, the emerging romantic haven of a physical reaction, a loss of hormonal balance, or the achievement, to cover the evolution of men.
We are advertising our own survival by adding roses, candle light and opened hearts, an organ, an essential one, no doubt, and it looks more saleable than a pile of grey intestinal lazy sausage pit, interdepending, storing the genius of menkind. A greeting card dissecting the brain, unfolded baring confessions of conformity.
Finally it is a dissapointment watching myslef dealing with, let´s call it love. – “Maybe you are gay?” – “They don´t love? Have sex?” – Holy!
Maybe I am just human and all this how-do-I-feel is part of the game. More bored.
Why not find the one, stay, alive, live, rock together and delete this issue from the list, my list of how to reach a level of an enjoyable life without asking what went wrong. Outside is enough wrongness. I need a cover-up. No, I am not searching. But it finds me, whenever I feel safe.
Maybe I miss my friends.
Maybe I love already.
Maybe this is it.
Maybe I am just like the most of us, insatiable.
And arrogant.
That arrogant to think I earn love.
How you receive something, which doesn´t exist?
Back to work.
