A post-coital anecdote

My appetite is bad today, yesterday, too, which, of course is good. On the other hand I am not sure if it’s the smoking, I’ve grown a bit attached to it. I used to gain comfort from a body and now the comfort is inside some skin that holds tobacco together. The only difference is that there is more certainty inside something that’s slowly singeing away as I breathe in. Another lesson of enjoying the moment while it lasts.

 

What happens when stress clogs your chest? You cannot focus; you are unwilling to talk…all you want is to punch someone in the gob and break his ribs for unlimited access. I advised her to focus on anger when sad. Wouldn’t you rather be angry than sad?

 

Sometimes you reach a level of indifference that impairs your sense of empathy and the smile is just a well-fitted disguise that people like to see. The rest is insignificant. I must say this game is nice and distracting and I’ve grown accustomed to it. But being on the threshold of a new beginning I might as well take the advantage of optimism into account just to overcome this little bit of fear. But it’s not easy when most things right now feel like plastic and dwelling inside a cage with all those could-have-beens, which are only products of an illusion. Well, chasing an illusion is better than nothing, at least we have ideas that we pursue, no?

 

I understand the nature of indecision now. Every action has a consequence and if you cannot see this consequence upfront, you do not want to risk anything. As for me I seem to jump from one decision to the next, because I fear stagnation. You know what I mean. You know what it’s like being stuck at a place where there is no room for you to grow. You sit by the river, envy it as it’s always on the move while you’re just sitting there, petrified, pitying yourself. What matters is what hasn’t been.

Every day I do what I hate and it has to stop. At the end of each day I wish I could see a priest. I wish I could speak with my fairytale godfather who will talk me out of all this and stop me from doing it again.

 

My attention span is low, unless I have a good piece of transgressive fiction with details of the obscene…I don’t know why these descriptions grab me so much, but somehow they help me feel, does that sound worrying? My taste in fiction and movies continues to disgust people, so that I do not want to tell them anything.

I’ve been catching up on the novels that F. has recommended me in order to boost the theme and character of my novel. And I’ve just realized that all these characters are exceedingly obsessive, so much that my skin tingles, but interests me like nothing else. They stimulate my inner fantasies and help create this distinct fictional figure that represents everything I love and hate and only the sex maintains the balance of our relationship.

 

The feeling after sex can be very haunting, as though losing a big chunk of your consciousness to the already overfed reality, which becomes so huge that you suddenly fear everything if you’re not being held closely. What happens once the pleasure’s over and you realize your world has been dangerously rattled?

Sometimes I wonder what’s better: Be pretty with a career providing you with a lot of attention or be a lonely housewife with a cheating husband. I guess in the end both women will share the same kind of loneliness.

Will I ever have the capacity for undeniable love? Or will you delude me into believing in this semi-charmed love affair? This is just a post-coital observation – nothing else.

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