The bathtub incident

Dear diary
I know many years ago I used to address you like that because I don’t know who I was talking to and neither do I know now.
At some point when I was a smitten teenager I used to address boys in my diaries, boys that I never approached. It was my only way to be close to them.
My imagination used to be so strong and visual that I even wrote stories about having sex in a cabin underneath an avalanche just to warm up. For some reason I can see myself having to pay in order to get laid in future. No matter what, coitus will remain meaningless in this life of reruns.
Live and learn, the only time I feel I’ve learnt is when I’ve lost…lost a big chunk of morality leading to, of course, demoralisation. Though it’s no time to give up yet, and masochistically speaking I love hitting the ground and then find a good reason to get back up. Fuck this living will, fuck hope I sometimes say, but WHAT ELSE DO WE HAVE, WHAT ELSE CAN WE DO, Mr Camus? Truth is, I can’t continue like this! EVERYTHING JUST ENDS UP THE SAME! All these reruns and repetitions as though I’m paying for errors from a life of which I don’t even know…! Do I even understand the meaning of justice in relation to karma anymore? Fuck meaning, Albert. I can’t always just create it myself, I need some reassurance and consistency, I need to see what I’m doing reflected at me in someone’s eyes! But no one can and you say Sisyphus is a happy fella…? I don’t know why, but very often I just feel sorry for him.
You remember how in my diary entries I was most aware of reality? Of course, who would ever forget my pathetic responses to it? Time to go insane, Philip K Dick would say, as if I haven’t been insane already all this time. So the more disconnected I become the more insane the inner faculties are turning and the more I need to release my anger and taint this beautiful white sea…!

Goddamn me.
Holy fuck, it sickens me to see how I have such a great deal of hope running through my veins and yet I still visualise myself half naked in a clean white bathtub holding the final decision in my hand.
There are many bathtub incidents, think about The Rules Of Attraction (my favourite teen movie), Cloud Atlas, The Butterfly Effect. Give me more examples, but it doesn’t have to be as extreme as the one in Scarface. I’m more drawn to subtlety, you know that, a sort of quietude disrupted by a strong tone of colour. Like blood in snow, Hemingway would say, like blood in snow. This is how he described the lips of a geisha. But all I see is Frobisher in the bathtub.
I re-fell in love with my side fringe, not only does it make me look younger again, but it’s also hiding my eyes. I never liked my hair, but I did when I was 21. This inevitable feeling of growing old, withering away heightens the sense of regret by constantly looking back into the past and its mistakes. And for the love of Christ, I don’t have the time for this. I will no longer look for that mutual feeling.
I want to curse hope, curse it for getting involved with the unknown behind my back just to teach me a lesson. What happened to my own choices? Are they so deeply influenced by what means shit to me? This explains all those trivial memories. For instance I remember Dan and I talking about number 5 before he kissed me at St Pauli station in 2009 on a Sunday or how you and I talked about The Name Of The Rose when we walked down the stairs in Embankment.
I’m done blaming others, although determinism doesn’t allow me to change certain things about who I am. But I still believe that nothing is constant. Thus, there’s the danger that one falls out of love, falls out of place. This is it. A temporary chemical reaction with a numbing after-effect, too dead to cry, not enough air in this stuffy prison that I created in my own head… and I want to stick my fist into the 21st century’s mind, which is your heart and smother it. But it’s not worth it.

So, what if one day I come to terms with it and it won’t mean anything anymore? Hopefully that day I will stay in bed, make myself comfortable and dwell in the world of endless sleep, make love to Morpheus and live the dream.

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