A past lover made me so abstract: 18 de mayo de 2013

INDECISION GRIPS ME IT DOES 

It has tied me down, I am frozen, immobile. I will defeat you, I will write you into oblivion, I will figure you out, I will sift through the insanity and find what’s real. It will be difficult. Nothing used to happen and now things are happening. Do we create conflict because we are bored? Scared?

I have some fucking complexes I need to figure out, man. Oh god, the aloneness is so swift and luscious and bulging, and pink hazy vibes surfacing from inanimate objects. Perspective has been jizzing all over me, I can’t figure out if he is a genius or a super nerdy skinny freak. I mean, he is both, and jealousy is erupting from my orifices, steaming and fresh. I want his genius for my own.

But there is also an irritation orb enclosing me like an astronaut’s bubble-head that wants him to be more open to people, to strangers. There is this negative hate in him that I want to go away. He doesn’t understand me, and he won’t try to understand because of primary, initial flaws that contradict the design right at the start, and stand like a wall between us. Is it a language barrier? Although we are speaking English I know there is something blocking our communication.

I feel so ugly and fat sometimes, and I get all insecure and can’t relax and I think he thinks it’s him but it’s just me. I started thinking of him as a predator, which somehow is the way I always manage to schematize men and their penises. It scared me, forming my perception like that, and I felt only animal. I felt like I was being attached to by this weird sea urchin hungry clingy permanence, I couldn’t rest.

And I just don’t want to have sex, ever. I can’t put energy into it, I have no desire. Is it him or me? I feel bad for depriving him, and I can’t decide if I want to be that stereotyped girlfriend whose boyfriend begs her for sex. There’s a tiny part of me that wants to be that, that wants to be desired and not ever give back. But also, I don’t want to be put in that kind of box, much less a very stereotypical box. In any case, I AM HER, regardless if I want to be or not, at least in this relationship.

Are sex and love ultimately intertwined, always? Do they have to be? Am I in love with him if I want to be him, to encompass his genius and creativity and precise articulation, but don’t want to fuck him? But then, I don’t even want to be him. His judgment is so fucked up. His reason, there is no reason, it’s all hyperactive maniacal emotion spurting out in blabbering ripples, much like my own words spewing forth. But wasn’t that Kurt? Wasn’t that Damon Albarn and Trent Reznor and all my imaginary artist lovers?

There is conflict. It’s my confused feelings about him – his vibes, his waves, his perspective of right and wrong and blended morals. I feel like I’m sinking into his brain, his world. I think my mind is filtering away slowly, like a tiny air leak underwater. I can’t figure out my own emotions and perspectives, as well as their validity, inherent or not, under his strong convictions. There is a bitterness in me, mad that I am not superior creatively. He is a genius in a plane out of my reach and I cannot live up to his expectations. I am not an infinite performer on an infinite stage. He is a brilliant spark of energy and mania, of thought and brainstorms bursting into color out of a midnight ether.

We have taken time and warped it into this snow globe world of falling emotion, lit by stupid TV glare and voices from nowhere and fat orb-glows, the blanket good vibes tool for success. We smoke and we dance and we drink and we argue, and I’m losing myself in that world. My common sense is struggling under a constant wind of opinions stated as fact, stated as this is how it is, this is the truth.

His subjectivity overwhelms me. I disagree and I cannot argue because he is still intellectually swimming in the clouds and my reason cannot grab hold and make him stop. It’s all abstraction, there are never examples, we talk in another dimension and my brain is uncoiling into twisted shadow. He drives me crazy and I cannot stand him, I am completely insane. But in the next moment I am a brainwashed pooka pet praising, never admonishing…

AND THE WEED, MAN….

The objective is to get as fucked as possible, without negative consequences. It’s quite easy with weed, you always feel great the next day. There is no hangover, only a feeling of refreshment.

I am always the most brilliant! Am I insecure because I have finally met my match and I don’t feel up to it? A lover of words, of worlds, of anxiety manifested differently in each one. Who is to tell where the path leads? Too swift a change in psyche for me to not be suspicious and a bit nervous and unable to analyze critically and objectively. The lines between dream and waking life have been smudged with dirty fingers and gin and iambic pentameter. I want to welcome this world spinning towards me, but to let go of my own is terrifying. A tumultuous space adventure, but there’s no air out there, how would I survive? 

All of this is simply my mind’s dehiscence, him being the one with the blade. Fibers spilling everywhere, thoughts bouncing around the room, silently because I haven’t voiced them. I released them secretly, hoping maybe he’d see them, but of course he can’t, and I feel angry for his lack of intuition and emotional intelligence. I’m scared because I haven’t gone this far with anyone else, into the mind. I’m scared to proceed into his creative cloud-world. He’s leaning down, giving me his hand, but I’m afraid of failure and disappointment, his disappointment. I’m a psychonaut but he’s far ahead of me, asking me to go deeper, but my pace is slower and I’m uneasy. I can’t go that fast.

The objective is to get as fucked as possible. The objective is to change biology and chemistry. Psychonauts practicing alchemy, experimenting with liquid and smoke. Modern day alchemists dying and burning, reincarnated into pure, jerky movements. Facial tics, sadness seeping out oily pores and becoming quiet paranoid visions. Slow, deteriorating ash wrapped in thin, white paper.

Hey, now my vomit cathartic pencil lead spill is receding, dripping. I’m almost better, I can feel it. I can feel the nimbus halo softening, diffusing into normality, evaporating slyly, coyly. God, I haven’t vomited like that since anxiety in a wet, green place and a tyrant enslaved me. There is perhaps more to say, but the mania is now like molasses in a hot room, still molten but lethargic and slowing.