This is a dream; an illusion; an imitation of reality. It’s the rare moment when submission means more than a possession of the senses: it means fulfilling that basic human yearning not to be alone, without the fear of appearing vulnerable, without armour to dull the blow.
Staggering forward, tentative and wary of what feels, no, felt much more intimate and hidden than it truly was. Reaching closer, pulling closer in a nervous trepidation. Limping forward to kiss, taste…
No one can know. It’s a secret, all our own, and only we are aware of the admission to desire and want. What is it? This wanting to kiss, taste, to succumb to raw human emotion and get lost in a tangle of limbs with skin on skin rush like we’re scraping away at not just one another but ourselves, in an entanglement of our own intimacy, driving on a hesitation to shield ourselves from the world. Is this what it’s like everytime? Is this what it’s like with every person-endlessly the same because the lust is shouting more, more but somewhere surely there’s a voice that cries you feel, man, this is what it truly means to feel for God’s sake. But where is that voice now? Does it exist or is it blessed for the lucky few? The dream shatters, you fucked it up. Don’t ask questions.
How to write a fraction of that conflict!
I want to scratch away at the page with the letters bleeding from my lips but i can’t find the pen. I am pattering a fractured page, i am ripping at the vertebrae of my conscious trying to unbutton what i know in a belief that these things can be unpicked and simplified like life is this one encompassing system we can put into simple contexts, but we can’t. We’re constantly led astray-in a cycle- constant-churning- whirring-mechanical.
Just like that you have experienced erasure. Hours wear on; what did i say? What did i see? The fragments of echoes are merely that: echoes eroded by time, by the soft goodbye of things you can only imagine, the good that can never be reached.