thoughts (fragments)

But what can I do about the fact that, as far as I can tell, nothing, nothing is put to rest, however old a man may be?

____Philip Roth, the Dying Animal









untitled by groucho5


forget Philip Roth. forget that guy, i hate reading that guy. novels of perfect length. short, decipherable, easy to read. hard to digest. every morning and evening on the train i now spend with an uncomfortable half-erection. the perfect arousal, the kind you fight again, will yourself against. the kind that feels wrong and amoral and the kind society would shun. all those thoughts you were certain no one else could have known about. and here it all is. packed into 130 pages. wretched truth. and you fidget in your seat trying to will it away - the erection - try and direct it some other way as your pants tighten around you and you squirm to accommodate your own body.


___*___*___*

i refuse to write until i can do it without lying supine. i've decided that is the cause of all my writing-problems this year. the block. the lack of creativity, emotion or inclination - lying supine. when that stops, when i have space enough to write at a table, or at least sitting on a couch, then it will flow. it will come back and i'll be a newer version of the old me and i'd like that. kinda.


___*___*___*

'it's just one or the other, either you forget they exist or you want to have sex with every single woman you pass. it's one or the other.'
he smirks. i haven't seen him in nearly a year and this is what i want to talk about. 'you're right. that's basically it.'
'that's all there is to it. first gear or 10th, nothing in between'.
'just empty space.'
'lots of it.'


___*___*___*

i keep falling asleep before 10pm. it's the opposite of insomnia is. an immense attraction to collapse. a nightly indulgence.

here we go.


___*___*___*

i have never been this lost i'm terrified. 


(and, for the first time in years, i don't know how to put it into words. i'm left with it, a lonely couple stuck on a holiday together. a wordless commute - trying our best to turn our gaze away so we our vision of each other doesn't collide.

it is a heavy thing.

a silent, inchoate heaviness.