As close to me as can be
Posted 07-10-2014 at 08:17 AM by DoingMyBest
This was written without thought last night. About as close to a pure stream as I could ever be. A few interruptions as I was writing it during a show and had to do various tech cues, but still:
A useless pile of learnt responses. For the most part, people like me. Very few like me. And none have chemistry. It is impossible to have a reaction with a vaccuum - for I am but a casing, holding subpar quality negative emotion gloop, underprepared and underportioned. There is nothing to connect with. And let me be clear that I am not claiming to be devoid - merely that it hasn't been concocted properly, simply in a low volume, missing vital and proinent ingredients, made fromt he slurry left over from those that came before. Fortunes are presented to others and the fate gifted unto mine own person is such that I shan't know what others may call the sweet tang of love. I am fearful to never know another warm and beautiful embrace, aware with knowledge of the simple fact that I shall retain celibacy until this weak husk of vitality finally gives out against my protestations and combat to attain event he smallest semblance of life and living.
And so I have taken it upon myself to make a decision. To vaguely attempt the feeble pretense of chasing that I will never know, nor understand. Or to take the falsehood that I have chosen to give up that chase, that futility. Instead, I realised that the former would destroy more than just my being, it would eliminate the farcical play constructed around my career persona - the laughability of me being in a career - and the latter being a greater lie than ever told by the most eloquent and talented wordsmith of all time, ever. Even the mass that occupis this being that is mee cannot bear to taint itself with such a slur.
And so, to conclude, I shall meekly eke on, surviving for unkown and likely trivial, malign purpose, with no change to the current way of things. And so, the eternal torment of utter self-loating, lacking societal contribution an wasted future-searching continues on. Alone. Isolated in oneself. Perfect, immaculate, despicable: the ultimate solitude.
"Peace is lying beside a woman. Touching her, by accident, all soft. Smelling her, not stinking like us. Listen to her breathing. That's the only sound she makes, in the peace. Her breath. Listen, listen. Peace together, as she sleeps, and me awake, lovely, lovely. I would press against her belly, and kiss, and I would be happy as a lark. Her legs move as she sleeps and I hold them, and want to lift them and conceive in the morning, on Christmas Day in the morning, in the happy, happy bed, our bed. Wife. Wife." - Edward Sherridan in Someone Who'll Watch Over Me by Frank McGuinness.
A useless pile of learnt responses. For the most part, people like me. Very few like me. And none have chemistry. It is impossible to have a reaction with a vaccuum - for I am but a casing, holding subpar quality negative emotion gloop, underprepared and underportioned. There is nothing to connect with. And let me be clear that I am not claiming to be devoid - merely that it hasn't been concocted properly, simply in a low volume, missing vital and proinent ingredients, made fromt he slurry left over from those that came before. Fortunes are presented to others and the fate gifted unto mine own person is such that I shan't know what others may call the sweet tang of love. I am fearful to never know another warm and beautiful embrace, aware with knowledge of the simple fact that I shall retain celibacy until this weak husk of vitality finally gives out against my protestations and combat to attain event he smallest semblance of life and living.
And so I have taken it upon myself to make a decision. To vaguely attempt the feeble pretense of chasing that I will never know, nor understand. Or to take the falsehood that I have chosen to give up that chase, that futility. Instead, I realised that the former would destroy more than just my being, it would eliminate the farcical play constructed around my career persona - the laughability of me being in a career - and the latter being a greater lie than ever told by the most eloquent and talented wordsmith of all time, ever. Even the mass that occupis this being that is mee cannot bear to taint itself with such a slur.
And so, to conclude, I shall meekly eke on, surviving for unkown and likely trivial, malign purpose, with no change to the current way of things. And so, the eternal torment of utter self-loating, lacking societal contribution an wasted future-searching continues on. Alone. Isolated in oneself. Perfect, immaculate, despicable: the ultimate solitude.
"Peace is lying beside a woman. Touching her, by accident, all soft. Smelling her, not stinking like us. Listen to her breathing. That's the only sound she makes, in the peace. Her breath. Listen, listen. Peace together, as she sleeps, and me awake, lovely, lovely. I would press against her belly, and kiss, and I would be happy as a lark. Her legs move as she sleeps and I hold them, and want to lift them and conceive in the morning, on Christmas Day in the morning, in the happy, happy bed, our bed. Wife. Wife." - Edward Sherridan in Someone Who'll Watch Over Me by Frank McGuinness.
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