I’m uninterested in everything. People and occasions bore me like you wouldn’t believe. I mean, just being close to someone else makes me flinch. When they open their mouths to talk, I prepare myself for the worst. I’ve heard everything before. Every truth and every lie, all boring and unimaginative. It genuinely pains me to be around others, especially now. I used to be closed mouthed, then one day I started telling the truth thinking it would do me good. That was the worst thing I ever did. Telling the truth gets you nowhere. Lying and cheating is where it’s at. Being dishonest is what makes the world go round. All those pretty white lies, blossoming like petals beneath her pretty chin. You can be as honest as you like, but others will always take you for granted. They’ll ride you like a pretty white horse. So keep quiet and bite your lip. Smoke a cigarette and breathe in the smoke until it makes your eyes water. Disappear someplace else, somewhere warm and without shadows.
If only I were elsewhere. Anywhere but here. Suckling on a mute lovers breast maybe. Or how about taking a shower with one whose libido overpowers my own. Clutching my cock, she’ll jerk me off whilst pushing her tongue against mine. The feel of her hips, and the way my legs give way as I’m brought to the point of climax. The water sometimes makes me feel fresh I know, but sex is something less. It’s good don’t get me wrong, and I would never turn it down, that’s for sure. But, it’s all so repetitive. Everything’s been done before. All is a copy, there’s nothing original left. No sacred love, and no genuine feelings. I’m living someone elses dream. Or even worse, someone elses life. This world, is an empty replica. Like a tired paintcan, collecting dust in a shed at the bottom of the garden. It’s cheap and thin, like something I can’t recall. A vague memory, or an idea long since passed. Always out of my grasp. Mocking, and never there. Filled with spiders and clumps of scar tissue.
Stepping outside for a smoke, my head spins.
I can never find myself. Tonight, this morning or whenever. I’m always in the past or the future, never in the present. I’m in limbo. Flashing behind her eyes, and bubbling away between her thighs. She knows where I am, yet she makes no effort to stop me. It must be the scent of what I am, or what it is inside of me, that tickles her real good. Lost tales and summer sun. Humid afternoons and the taste of beer in fields of burnt grass. There was a mausoleum from what I remember. Great stone blocks and names of the dead, basking in eternal sunlight for all those endless years. The air was full of breeze though, and as the town went on oblivious beneath us, there was nothing else that needed to be done. It was a perfect moment. Now it too, is lost. The pebbles beneath my feet, and the bees that buzzed around my head. A bottle of cola, and a camera to take photos of her pretty blue-eyed face. The whiteness of her teeth, and the birds that flew from tree to tree. There were squirrels too, and deer. My flesh was hot, and day kept growing like our love.
The blinds in this room don’t let enough light in. Or rather, they do, but she wants it to remain dim. It reeks of her perfume, and my balls ache. I want to spread my seed all over her, to shower her body with my love. Instead though, I’ll admire the way her nipples protrude through her top and watch television. Or maybe read a book. Later on, I’ll go for a walk, or maybe I wont. It doesn’t matter either way, not really. Open mouthed and mindless, the hours never bend the way you want them to. They just escape with a whimper, delicate like the soft shell of a baby’s head.
I could have written this myself. In fact, I’m sure I’ve written something very similar on multiple occasions over the years.
Unfortunately, it’s a common feeling to have it seems. Yet, it never seems to be enough to keep us from giving ourselves to others, even though we know what the inevitable outcome will be..