The Ways We Think...Are Immeasurable.

"Human fate gives itself to human fate, and it is the task of pure love to keep this self-surrender as vital as on the first day.”

-Martin Heidegger

 

 

 

   I'm not going to pretend like I'm the best looking person in the world. Yet, I'm also not going to pretend that I have the creepiness factor of an aging hipster that owns a vintage clothing shop. I like to feel that I fall somewhere in between having to bribe a decent looking woman, and Justin Timberlake. Plus, I never discount my personality. I account 90% of all intimate relationships in my life to nothing more than personality.

   And dick size.

   That being said, I am still astounded by the utter lack of sexual energy that comes off the normal human being. I am also equally shocked by the subordinate disgust that sexual energy gets met with. Now, I know that not everyone is as casually energetic as I am. Trust me, I have had my share of run ins with those lackluster in the field of intimacy. The problem is the occasional conflict of personality.  The bored attitude I have towards those unable to digest casual conversation about what I consider one of the greatest gifts we have to give each other. The ability to make each other lust.

  J'aime la luxure

   That is putting it simply. The adoration of lustful thoughts, and the subsequent ability to manifest those into action is no less than heavenly, to me. It is overwhelming at times. It is a burden of thought and time. It can come with a bit of regret. These things are easy for me to admit.

   My mind wonders about the mind's of other people. How do they not feel this way? Why do they not wear it on the outside of their psyche as I do? Does this mean it is an addiction, or a personality flaw? My answer has constantly been, "I don't know."

   This is a short blog because right now I am in the midst of a conundrum. Writing, for some people, helps with large questions about life, love, lust, friendship,...etc. It doesn't do that with me. Writing makes me unable to think. It sets up a roadblock in my psyche. This is why I write when I am at my most despondent. It blocks out the bad thoughts for a brief shining moment. I have no bad thoughts right now. Just weird questions.

 



If I Die Before I Wake

   She lives in this oddly, fragile bubble. What makes it worse is that I don't want to pop it. Don't get me wrong. I want to crawl inside it with her. Do you realize how hard that is? Bubbles do not take kindly to the intrusion of foreign objects, and that is exactly what I am. I am a foreign object, in all sense of the words.
   "Do you ever wonder if I'm just a novelty?", she asks through wine stained eyes.
   "You don't think that I wonder the same thing about myself?", it's rude to answer a question with a question. "I'm sorry, that was rude, but let's be honest. I could be the same thing, Yet, I'm not going to spend our time worrying about that. When I look into your eyes I don't see a series of clichés, or interests. I don't see someone defined by what they wear, or where they go. When I look into your eyes, or hold your hand, or walk down the street with you, I see.....hope. I see respect. I see interest in what I say, even if it is ridiculously ludicrous. When I am with you, I am with you. Not a novelty."
   "You talk too much."
   "Isn't that why you like me?"
   "That's one part of it", she slinks down in the booth seat, next to me, as if she's hiding from someone. It's no less than adorable. This is new for me, and by all accounts, new for her also. This is the best part. It feel new to me.
   I don't miss seeing her body. I miss seeing her. I don't miss dirty words coming from her mouth. I miss any words, from her mouth, that take the time to grace my ears. I don't miss making out with her. I don't miss sex with her. I don't miss the groping, and late night sweating that comes with being in bed with a past woman. I just miss laying there, listening to her breath, and moving her hair away from my mouth so that I don't end up chewing on it in the middle of the night.
   At one time I was confusing her shyness with a lack of self confidence. I was wrong. She is a woman. A confident, radiant, independent woman. She is also coy, aloof, guarded, and meaningful. Spending so much time defining people by one quality has made me pretentious. It has made me judgmental. The realization that one faceted people are everywhere is not a new thing. Yet, it does not mean that I have to surround myself with them.
   She is not a novelty.
   She is a novel.
   And as long as she is writing it.
   I will continue to read every page.