Womb Stories

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Stood in a swimming pool masturbating over the memory of some cute blonde who had a penchant for taken from behind, someone tells me that fifty people have been shot dead in a gay bar in Orlando. They also call me a pervert, but that’s neither here nor there. Finishing myself off, I swim away from my floating seed and think about what it must be like to die. Sometimes, I forget I’m here, and life just passes me by. Death isn’t all bad, because it’s a bit like being back in the womb, and some of my favourite memories come from being in the womb. I guess the horrors of not existing come from regret, from realising we aren’t immortal, and that sooner or later, are number will come up, and that will be the end of it. It’s as simple and plain as that. Listening to Pink Floyd, I mourn how many years I’ve wasted, and how even now, the days escape me in my thirst to become a better writer. There are offers of relationships, and of quick bang-bangs with not one ounce of intimacy, and as you can imagine, they’re as cheap and as hollow as that. Sunday was spent in bed editing the journal. Apart from the odd journey to the bathroom and kitchen, the hours were spent writing with little else in between. It fills me with pleasure to know I’m getting better, and yet the repetition eats away like a cancer, consuming everything until all that’s left is the shell of the lover I used to be. Not that the lover I once resembled was up to much anyway, but you catch my drift. There’s stuff I want to talk about, and yet it’s already been said so many times before. Others say it better, which is why I’m trying to find a voice that allows every emotion to flow the way it should. Looking up at the sun, I’m once again struck by how insignificant this all is. Those around me create such melodrama, but it’s so empty I can’t help but laugh.

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