Sometimes I feel shy about talking, about writing, about confessing my feelings or thoughts on certain matters, such as death or love or fashionable opinions. Sometimes I feel alone, with myself. Sometimes I pretend that being alone is more meritous than being in the midst of the crowd. I like to think that those people, suspended in the midst of others, inundated by their opinion, are quite alone. I know so many lonely people. I think I’m drawn to these types. They commiserate with themselves and so they get creative. They manufacture all sorts of hooks and lines to grab the attention of others.
Sometimes I enjoy being all alpha male, objectifying women and looking at their curves and sensuality like its something to be had. Other times I want to be the voice of all the women who can’t say it for themselves, the voice that’s strong and tells people who they are rather than what they are. Sometimes I like to imagine that I’m that voice for women. I talk about their social oppression, about the inequalities portrayed in our culture. Then I think how much bullshit that is. How they do better than males on average in school. Then I think how women are masqueraded as sex objects in every form. How demeaning. Eventually I wind up facing the physiological reality, accepting the crawling instincts that move men to react to the opposite sex, and it all makes sense. No use trying to overturn biological roots. Or no?
My greatest luxury is knowing how to forget. Forgetting is one of the great pleasures that allow me to remain intact, whole, more person than sheer weight. Its raining out today. Today I drive home, through the rain, for thirteen hours as I travel to florida.
It’s funny to think about ex’s/ Usually I don’t, but when I do, it moves me. I wonder if they ever think of me. I wonder if they ever miss me. I wonder if I really miss hem. I have a visceral reaction whenever I think of them, of holding them, of looking into their eyes, but I’m not sure I’ve ever wanted to be back with them again. OR is that just a way to protect myself? I reactive mechanism that pushes them away and disengages my feelings. Could it be that every girl I went out with I secretly still want to be with? And why would that ever be the case? Why on eaarth would I want something I’ve had, something that I chose to give up, most of the time anyway, at one point or another? I feel like it may have something to do with my self-esteem. Perhaps I don’t feel as good about myself as I need to, perhaps letting girls go is a way to keep me from hurting, so I push them away, and don’t put any work in. Or maybe these little questions and conclusions are artifices that I’m creating to understand the unknowable?
Gray day.
William Dare 