A post-coital anecdote

My appetite is terrible today and was yesterday too. That’s good, though.

On the other hand, I’m not sure if it’s 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 can’t 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 Ellen 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. It’s nice and distracting, and I’ve grown accustomed to it. If I’m on the threshold of a new beginning, I should take optimism into account just to overcome this little bit of fear. It’s not easy when everything feels like plastic and dwells inside a cage, thinking about 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 can’t see this consequence in advance, you don’t want to take any risk. As for me, I seem to jump from one decision to the next because I fear stagnation. Do you know what it’s like being stuck in 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, whereas you’re just sitting there, 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 transgressive elements intrigue me so much, but somehow they help me feel. Does it sound worrying? My taste in fiction and movies disgusts people. Often, I don’t want to tell them anything.

I’ve been reading the novels that F. has recommended to help boost my book’s theme and character. I’ve just realised that all these characters are exceedingly obsessive, so much that I get goosebumps. They stimulate my inner fantasies and help create this distinct fictional figure representing everything I love and hate, and only the sex sustains the balance of our relationship.

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

Sometimes I wonder what’s better: Be pretty with a career providing you with lots 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 myself into believing in this semi-charmed love affair? This is just a post-coital observation – nothing else.

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