Twice The Fool

I've made a fool of myself. Unwittingly. Therein lies the sting. I have absolutely no qualms about making a fool of myself when it's all in jest & more importantly a deliberate act on my account. It's a different story when I unwittingly make a fool of myself; you become a tragic fool instead of a comedic fool; it's even more troubling when it dawns on you, while you're still in the act of making a fool of yourself, that you are actually making a HUMONGOUS fool of yourself. I accidentally made a tragic fool of myself. The scope of my acting like a tragic fool ensconced itself snugly in my mind when my eyes met the glassy and full-of-pity stares of my audience. I could have kicked myself if I weren't in a hurry to leave the scene of the crime. In the discomfiting process of making a quick exit, I suspect, I left my dignity and pride behind. I don't think they will be of any use any time soon anyhow.

I'm not going to pen down how I made a fool of myself. Why? There's no humour in it. You'll just have to be contented with the projections of your own fancy...

I've made a little mix of lovely music to dull the pain.

Glimmer

My heart beats faster than the wings of a dragon fly
There are things that, probably, beat faster
But I, a child of my mother, could not care less
About those faster things & what they signify
For all I know they could all spell 'DISASTER'!
Or, be a prelude to some compressed mess.

You know, sometimes I'm just a tad too emotional. Emotionality is not always a bad thing; it helps the artist find his/her tortured aspect or temperament. But, in view of my post yesterday - when I was riding the crest of a wave of emotionality - it seems a bit crass. Eloquent. But crass. Its crassness forced into a corset of words. Its bitterness forced down the rictus of reason. In short, I feel a bit foolish. Of course, things were said. Feelings were hurt. But I should be the better man. I hate having to deal with insecurities since they, in a perverted way, affect me, too. I morph into an oscillating sujet. And in this state of alternating between extremes my emotions swell and I spill grandiosities that, if they didn't carry the weight of pathos, could be construed as contemptibly silly.

I think I drifted into the waters of silliness and got my feet wet.

Oblivion

My mind is full of matter. My BF and I are going through one of those platitudinous rough patches. At some point during our relational stroll through couples' forest we wandered off the beaten track and ended up somewhere strikingly new to us. I do not know when it happened; I have an inkling how. The how is often much easier to ascertain than the when. To pinpoint a moment in time which instigated the atrophy of certain aspects of the relationship is nearly impossible. When? When he neglected my hurt feelings? Or the moment that came thereafter; when the sting of the hurt he had caused me finally materialized in my mind, and sprouted a myriad of hyphae, that corrupted every emotion they touched, that ultimately have ensnared me in this state of impasse?
I do not know when. How can I? I've mulled our situation over. I have debated whether to end it or to soldier on despite the realisation that hangs like a wraith in my mind. To be honest, I do not know. This state of not-knowing is killing me. I pride myself on being so very much in touch with my thoughts & feelings that this lack, this oblivion, sinks me deeper into a nothingness. Not knowing cuts like a dagger through my heart.

There's one thing, though. One simple truth that pierces, at intervals, through this mist. That I care deeply for my BF and that I do not want for it to end like this. In a state of oblivion.

Love is worse than a drug. Love is being reincarnated when you are still alive. I wish. I wish my lips could touch the waters of Lethe, and forget. Forget. Forget the things that have been said in carelessness.

Seclusion

Yesterday I spent an utterly lazy day at home; I dawdled like it was nobody's business. Like a languid cat I lay in bed stretching myself, looking at the ceiling, and turning sensually in the velvety, oleaginous warmth of my duvet. It was pure bliss. After a while though I felt restless and made up my mind to go out. I went for a walk in the temperate summer air. A slight panic gripped my heart; I felt overwhelmed by all the faces I encountered, the urban noises. I hurried back home. I snuggled safely in bed with a book; I put the book down after having read several pages. My mind flittered. I could not absorb what I read. I put on a film instead: Equus.
I fell asleep just a bit after I spoke to my boyfriend. I wished he was there to hold me. Solitude can be so cruel sometimes.

Not Waving, But Drowning

Sandy beaches with a million of crystalline pieces of exploded dreams. My feet leave imprints, indentations in the loose surface. I walk along these long stretches of a dreamscape and wonder where the shards of my dreams burst and settled down. The ocean laps languidly. The wind drags itself across the rounded masses that make up the people, the birds, the dunes, the wavy fields of grass. I sit down. My lover sits beside me. He grabs hold of my hand and together we stare into the distance; we watch the sun drown in a crimson coloured ocean of quietude. And we smile. We smile because what we prayed for came to be.

The sunshine won't ever come back. The earth will be dressed in the silky blackness of night for ever.

Dissociative Coolness

Underneath the blanket of shame
We desperately tried to tame
That which cannot be named
Without soliciting from circumstance
A destination to allocate blame.

I've grown tired of going out. It's not a sudden change, but a gradual one. The realisation reiterated itself yesterday night when I went to see a friend of mine DJ at a local club. The mood was happy enough. The people - as far as I could tell - were pleasant enough. My spirits, however, were dampened by whatever emotive wind that was blowing. I don't know. I could not connect with those around me, and I felt positively disheartened. On top of that, I was exhausted. Perhaps, that had something to do with it.

I'm in the process of writing a story. I have the outline ready; I need to find the time (and energy) to actually develop the outline into something readable and enchanting. Wish me monsters.

Rules Of Attraction

Desire. The ruin of humans. In philosophy, desire is identified as a philosophical problem; personal desires must be postponed in the name of the higher ideal. Rarely, if ever does this come about. People pursue their desires unchecked, unedited, unbridled, and mostly unconscious of the fact that they are being driven by their vague, inexpressed wishes.
A friend is expecting an ex from the US on Monday; his current boyfriend does not want anything to do with the whole affair. He does not want to meet the ex of my friend. I understand his decision, though I find it a tad over the top. It's all in the past. There's a reason why they broke up. Period. Not a comma. Not a semicolon. A firm and decisive dot, which does not, however, disallow the bond to continue in a different fashion, shade, form, hue. An affair can metamorphose into a friendship, and a friendship can metamorphose into an affair. The laws of physics that govern the bonds between people are not a collection of generalizations based on empirical observations of physical behaviour; they can not be tested or measured. They are susceptible to the minute forces that govern us. Why do we do the things we do? If only we knew...

I find it strange that he's so insecure, since my friend loves him dearly - and this his current boyfriend knows. That's it. Insecurity. Yet another ruin of us humans. If you let your insecurities run unchecked they can destroy much more than your self-esteem. A lot of people do not realize that being insecure is a state of being; it is not a permanent state. If you experience it as such it means you yourself are keeping your persona stuck in that precarious state. I have little sympathy for those people. I may sound harsh. But, I find it brutal that so many people are unaware of their own thought process.