Lately, I have used “lazy” verbs in my writing, variations of “to be,” “get”, “use,” “have,” etc.
I focus on conversational tones to set the tone of this noncontroversial tome.
Because I live in my own world, my own word combinations (but not my own words), I march to the beat of my own drum, at my own pace, sometimes in synchronisation with others, and sometimes not even in syncopation.
I seek no audiences.
I seek no paying audiences, that is.
I seek the audience of self-entertaining writing by being here, writing and reading what I’ve written, knowing only that the self will ever truly understand itself in what it sees in its reflection here in these words.
I nearly died twice in the past year from some random poisoning effect. Theories abound as to what might’ve killed me — spoiled food poisoning, food allergy, tick/mosquito bite, rat poison or some other industrial waste in manufactured food.
Possibly, my thought process shifted because of those two events.
I do feel a little more desperate to father a child before I die than I did a year ago.
Because of that desperation, I chose not to touch a woman last night when I attended the weekly Monday dance class I thoroughly enjoy. I only hugged or shook hands with guys.
Last night I didn’t want to be human, I didn’t want to believe I am merely a reproductive set of states of energy seeking a mate.
I gave myself the perfectly acceptable excuse that I don’t really exist and will die childless, walking away from the person(s) who give me the strength to believe it’s possible I am human, after all.
It’s easy to put these words here on electronic scratch paper, arrange them to entertain myself and give impressions about what goes on inside my thoughts which generate these sentences, paragraphs and blog entries.
None of them are real. They are arranged sets of “zeroes” and “ones,” binary digits or bits.
Anyone who understands the quandary understands why I know I don’t exist.
Any person who first drew a set of lines and circles, recognising the image of a stick figure, understands the quandary.
We are approximations, models, of the ideal person.
We build subcultures around ideals.
We assimilate with what we believe are the best approximations of the ideals we most want to assimilate with.
My problem (and I am not the only one) is I am the only me, the only approximation of myself with whom I most want to assimilate.
That in itself is a quandary.
I want to live with another me.
I have looked.
When I find a person or persons who best match(es) the approximation of me, I freeze, because I really don’t like me, thus making me afraid that I’m not going to like the person(s) most like me.
I don’t like being me.
I don’t want to bring another me into the world.
It takes a lot of mental processing to handle being with other people.
I can throw so much stuff at people they can’t see who I am or who I’m not.
Even now, I write this blog in dissociative mode, aware that one or more people I know will read this and it bugs the hell out of me because I can’t really, ever, be me in public, if there is a “me” at all inside this everchanging set of states of energy in motion.
I am an approximation of my self to myself, adjusted to entertain those around me.
Some of the labels I use to describe myself as a social being:
- The chameleon.
- The people pleaser.
- The contrarian.
I find the prettiest, the most handsome, the smartest, and/or the most lonely person I can find and focus on that person as if that person is my whole world, in hopes that it will temporarily erase myself from my thoughts.
Currently, I find myself seeking the freedom to be a polyamorous person (meaning more than one person with whom I actively have sexual relations, including the relationship management issues of deciding who is the primary, secondary, tertiary, etc., sexual partner), when, in the past, I had the same opportunity and walked away from it very decidedly, unwilling to sacrifice my mental “intellectual” freedom for the constant mental struggle to manage emotional relationship ups and down.
I have been here before, in other words, with a whole other set of friends and had chosen to walk away, marrying my childhood friend, instead.
I purposefully selected a practical, intelligent life partner who would provide a stable financial home for me to express myself through writing without the struggles to make a living as a writer by myself; in the process, I made a professional management career of my own whilst carving out a little time to write, earning a few dollars as a newspaper reporter, and making a little pocket change as a published author.
Thirty years later I find myself here in a sunroom where I’ve written/typed many words for myself and to others.
I’m afraid I’m too much of a narcissist to ever love more than a reflection of myself in others, my self being my favourite person to hate and punish for being himself/herself/whatever.
I wish I had something to offer others but all I have are these words. Sexually, I know how to flirt and dance and look longingly into other people’s eyes; I’m a sloppy kisser and get bored/uncomfortable having sex, wondering why I’m having intercourse if it’s not to procreate; I always think, “if we’re not procreating, then can I get back to writing cause this rolling in the sheets is interfering with an idea I’m processing for my next writing session?”. Financially, I’ve got very little; my wife is the millionaire, I’m just along for the ride, with a small annuity to supplement Social Security payments in a decade or so.
I love to write only because I like recording my thoughts, even if I don’t like me.
I may or may not register a place on the autism spectrum.
I don’t know what normal is, having been told ever since I started hanging out in social settings (beginning with my first grade teachers) that I tend to drift off from others, losing touch with conversations and sometimes literally walking away.
I’m not a lone wolf. I need the whole village to keep this idiot alive.
I’m not sure but I think I might want to cry right now, cry for the person I should be, for the human that might exist inside me, but I can’t cry. I feel cold, mechanistic, an automaton, a fractal spinoff of a star.
I will always be alone in my thoughts.
I will always see others alone in their thoughts and know how to temporarily snap them out of their thoughts to share a space between us.
What is tomorrow going to be like?
I don’t know and I’m afraid to ask myself.
Living through today, this waking period of 10 to 14 hours, is all I can ask of myself.
I hate myself.
I don’t want to live another day.
Getting older was supposed to make me wiser.
I simply feel old today.
Too old for words.