There are some mornings when i wake up and I’m just like blah. What more can I complain about today before 10? What else must I nitpick at to prove that everything is wrong? I’m tryna isolate myself but it’s hard when you got other people who need to vent and deal with their problems too. It’s Saturday morning and I’m listening to the birds chirp at my window. I don’t like waking up feeling like this, feeling like I’m ready for the world to end. I am at peace with the world ending. I read the news every morning. Deal with some heartbreaking gruesome shit everyday. Listen to the same stories everyday. Shed tears almost every day in disbelief that I wasn’t the only one growing up with a monster under my bed. The problem is I don’t know what to do or how to fully process all this information. It just sits there. Waiting. The longer it sits there, the heavier it becomes and the more weight i have to carry once i figure out what to do. I would like to runaway. I was thinking Miami today but I rather not. The drive, the money and it’s no guarantee that it will make me feel better. I have a paper still to do and I am beyond myself at this point. Yesterday I barely spoke at work. I barely wanted to talk. Really felt no urgency to do anything but sulk and wallow in despair. What despair? The despair of never finding an end to what we are constantly facing.
But here’s an idea… maybe try making the best of your situations? How about that? Or, how about to accepting the shit and keep it moving? Or, even better, stop reading the gotdamn news, get you a job in retail and sell some clothes and make people look somewhat decent.
All good ideas but I rather wallow in my despair. It just feels good on a Saturday morning with the sun shining right through my window and the birds are chirping.
It feels good to wake up sad. Makes one question everything and makes living just that much more fascinating.
How are you navigating through your life’s trials and tribulations my dear?
Ive been writing and then I’ve been stopping. Stopping because I start to question what I’m writing instead of just feeling the words. So I’ve gotten scared to share and just been keeping it to myself. I’ve been writing to reach someone, anyone but I don’t feel that I am. I don’t feel that my words are making sense and I am becoming overtly critical of my own art form. I need to find a way to unblock and create again. Where i feel comfortable and confident and secure in myself that I am ok with what I am creating. It’s a struggle. But I know exactly what I need and there is no other way for me to achieve it other than to leave my situations behind and be free. Lately it’s just been a routine effort in my part to keep my head above water. Like I’m not even trying to survive really, I’m just doing what’s necessary to make it seem that I am. There’s feelings of suffocation and deprivation and loneliness and just everything that shouldn’t be existing in my presence is just here and staying past their welcome. Maybe that’s where I screwed up? Once you acknowledge the feelings, you know you have to do something, right? That’s why I love denial. I can be anyone and feel anyway I want without ever having to re-examine the truth and what’s in front of me. How long does this last usually? Well there are people who are 50+ that seem to be working out just fine in my opinion. I can muster up another 22 yrs of this role.
But the point of the matter is I’m blocked. I’m backed up. I’m still pushing myself to write even though I suck. I have books and empty wine glasses all over the floor of my bedroom. Lolita has taken a fuckin turn for the worst and quite frankly, as sick as this book is, I am quite intrigued at how delicately written this story is. Nietzsche is still in the corner because I ain’t ready to be dealing with his ass and Anais, well I pick her up when I begin to feel hopeless in my situation. Hopeless being used for a more delicate term than bored.
I’ll keep writing. That much I will do. Everything else, well, I’ll just let it fall and wherever it lands I’ll deal with it later.
Think it was a quarter to three this morning, trying to get ready for work, the usual routine to begin a Saturday. Body barely able to maneuver itself from the left side of the bed. The Tiffany grey velvet chaise in the corner sitting there appearing lonely, empty. The lighting was giving it a soft silhouette against my pale creme colored walls. It never matters what time of the morning it is, I never want to leave the bed where you so selfishly had your way with me. The thoughts that fill the mind as soft curls descend upon satin pillows, man are we gorgeous together. Sometimes a smile appears across lips just in awe and disbelief. The topic of your complexion is my favorite subject. It’s total perfection. Utterly blissful to lay lips against. A few words were once spoken with promises to stay away. My lover, you are dangerous to a woman like myself…. The ability to reduce a woman of substance to nothingness lies in the most prized part of your being. The way words are written against the flesh, the forceful nature of screaming out the name of the man who moves mountains closer together so that the tongue can caress peaks in unison. The selfishness to the core of our bones is overpowering a sane mind to quit while she is ahead. Yet, I cannot fathom another night without the warmth of you between my thighs. I should feel guilty but I am overwhelmed as replays of tongue and erected flesh flash vividly against the darkness of an empty room.
Oh lover, you are more than just a dangerous man. You are the man who rules me and I cannot stay away from the man who’s lips are made of silk and honey.
How smooth the hand glides and guides the body’s movement as the minutes turn to hours and the heater has presented itself 3 times. Sweat beads forming on the nape of the neck as the tongue rolls over the collar bone and legs become more inviting. “It’s so hot in here” escapes and the mood softens as bodies fall together in laughter. Strong arms to carry across the kitchen floor as the thermometer is adjusted and the flickering candlelight rest easy in our eyes. There’s always been such a sweet passion whenever time has allowed itself to be in our presence. The secret life of the grown and unfaithful. Countless times have led to the finale but the finale is never as subtle, always leaves the insatiable yearning. 200 goodbyes leads to 201 hellos….
Since nights will never be shared again, I’ll always write in the memory of your body. From the way light glimmers off your collar bone and dances along your chest to the way the erected flesh made the most beautiful melodies between softened thighs. You were my favorite. My delight. My fantasy. My muse. And I’ll forever write to you. For you. Because of you.
The intensity of you through the physical, solely, is no longer appeasing to my appetite. I’m still hungry even when you’ve given every inch of you. My lover, this is turning into more than just an affair. I want you in ways I am not sure even I can handle but I am not scared to try….
I wake up wanting you. Wanting our lips to meet. Below sea level with eyes locked. On dry land where even the softest kiss makes the ground shake. Allowing hands to guide along the calming waves of desire and fingers wanting to disappear below the ocean’s surface. It’s a meeting that needs to happen. It’s a peculiar thing to just wake up wanting. Hands between thighs wanting them to be yours. Wanting to wake up next to the hardest part of you. Wanting to be taken and gripped with a handful of flesh. Wanting to be devoured. Wanting to become the ripest peach you’ve ever tasted, you’ve ever enjoyed. I want to become for you. I wake up wanting you. And I want you, to want me too.