It is incomprehensible to me the absurdity of life. How sudden despair with depth and edges like teeth still uplifts and fulfills and how such transcendent moments come in the shower occasionally. Yet, sometimes after toweling off and rubbing the condensation off the mirror it leaves with both its wonder and its weight.
I find it crazy that people commit suicide. Note here: not they. I don’t find them crazy. I find ‘it’ crazy. The action set apart as a platonic form if you will. Suicide quo suicide. Half of me doesn’t care. I mean whatever, right? Either there is eternal existence beyond the body or not. And either way, they are going to be ok. I feel. They might regret the decision on the other side, but they’ll be ok. I have to believe that because I have too many faults to be afforded more mercy than them. And if there is nothing… well then what did they lose? Pain, loneliness, despair.
I like the way a book smells. New and old. And often when I read them on the love seat in my kitchen, or by the window, or outside I find myself thinking of women. Each page like clothing, each letter like strands of hair that alone would look peculiar but together form a beautiful style. Every turned page is a removal of a layer of clothing, until ultimately we are both naked – at first exciting but then disappointing after a while. The undressing, it would seem, is more important than the being undressed. There is something about knowing the whole story that disturbs me. All I want to do is go back to ignorance so I can experience the unveiling again. That’s a metaphor… Sometimes.
I find it intolerable to not read… something, anything. But not nothing. I find it crazy that people could find it boring. I guess that’s what makes me intolerant. Oh well, so sue me. I wonder how such people view women, and love, and family. How do they view history, humanity, and art. Do they view them at all? I guess they must. But everybody reads, right? Such people don’t really exists. I mean, I read too much, it’s not good. I am not talking about that much. But everybody reads…. sometimes.
I love it when people are honest. And when they touch you a lot. Hugs and handshakes. Kisses and kicks in the ass. I thinks that’s why I like alcohol and people who drink it. I don’t like it when people run for fun. I understand why they do. I just don’t like it. I mean, honestly, what are you running from? Or toward? And are you getting there? I don’t like it when people don’t do things out of fear, though I’m shockingly cowardly in that same way. Perhaps that’s why I like it in others. Perhaps that is why I drink alcohol. For honesty, and touching moments, and foolish bravery that makes you experience things you never would.
It unnerves me when people don’t drink. Even more so when they feel it makes them righteous. Even more so when they do so because of God. I don’t think he could possibly care less, really. On the other hand I understand them. What are they really losing but abstaining? Hangovers, bad livers, hurt feelings (the bruises of honesty), people who touch too much because their motives are other than humanity. The smell of vomit. The feeling of cold porcelain on your face. Not missing much. So it could be worse. It still unnerves me, and that is confusing to me.
I like children. I want some. My own. I have nothing against adoption. I just have no desire to do so. My love for children comes only after my love for women. Such a kind and gentle sex. Like children with minds of adults, and adult inclinations. Like interesting, social, and educated children. Not to mention, they are great on the eyes. As such, you can imagine I love families. I want one. My own. Yet being a father scares me. A lot. I had a good example though, so I should be fine. My wife would help too. I have friends that would be glad to help out. Yet still. I am afraid. What if I raise a Hitler, you know? Do I really control that? Such worries are ridiculous. But they come in those moments in the shower too. How desires and fears are twin brothers. Note here: not sisters.
I have no tolerance for people who think goods come without bads. Or that bads don’t have a silver lining. My theory: take a day, a real day, to be whatever emotion you are feeling – then get over it. Everybody needs to take a day for themselves. Then they need to understand that life is complex and not every day can be a day off, yet occasionally you can have one, and they are good.
Of course I say all this. Yet I still adore many a person and humanity as a whole. I can never look into an eye and not feel something. All these things that perturb me, before and after the fact, are nothing when I am with somebody. I don’t know why. I don’t know how. I don’t know if I am being dishonest or a social construct. It just doesn’t happen. That is the blessing of my life. All people have to be upset, have to feel pain, they have to be disappointed. It is good for them. But if you can enjoy the time when you are with others, forget your problems, read a book, have a drink, and just be. Well, if you can do that, you can be happy. People will either make you happy or sad, and 9 times out of 10 this depends on your perception. I got lucky. I naturally love people and because of it I love life. That is really all I had to say, so why I wrote the rest, and why you read it, is all a mystery to me.