"How can she be moving on when I haven't yet?" It is the lowest of my thoughts. And right now it is what is driving me.
How can I let this keep feeding me? The answer is that I can't. As each day goes by, I find myself drifting further and further away from her. But she tells me her life. She shares with me everyday. And sometimes I can take that. And sometimes it makes me want to run screaming. And sometimes I have the need to lose it. But I can't really allow myself that anywhere except for in the words that I write. Thank God I have that.
The text message read: "I need to find myself in a cabin, with a computer, wireless, tons of books, rum, and a girl I hardly know." In addendum to that I would ad, that I want to be found in that cabin writing furiously, not just indulging my carnal desires. I have found that this, these words, are something that I still love.
I hate to admit that this is really where I'm mentally at. I just need some kind of escape into words, and fake love (or even real love). There is no romance left in my life, and though that sounds asinine coming out of the "pen" of a huge guy, in a punk band, with scars running up and down his arms, it is true. I miss those moments of anticipation. I miss the kisses that sting of cigarettes and booze. I miss romance. I miss thrill, tenderness, and wonder. I ache for it.
I ache for a romance that I'm sure looks nothing like the romance of the sane human. But the kind that involves me writing and her reading, punctuated by passion. Literate passion, physical passion, spiritual passion. Is this dream complete without thought, and words, and art. Me lost to work, her lost to the moment. That must be what a muse would feel like. That smoldering burning ember of lust mixed with creativity. This makes pornography look tame. This thought dwarfing pure animal lust. Really tame.
I want so much more than I have sometimes.
Is it so much to want art, and love, and knowledge to all be one in the same person.
File under Vice.
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