Betrayed by dreams
Fuck. Not this shit again.
No, not again. This time it’s worse.
We were there, locked in a setting similar to our workspace. There was even a warehouse, but more watery. A fish warehouse.
It was mostly dimly lit. You were fucking him behind and on top of those moist, fishy, moldy boxes, and I could watch freely. Fuck. This one really sucked, and I managed to feel real jealousy- it felt just like it does in real life. I woke up cursing myself.
I can feel the mood-swings more accurately now. Being happy means I expect normalcy to take over soon. Being sad means I expect death to just take me as soon as possible. Being normal doesn’t really mean anything.
I’m not too fond of death these days, not like I used to be anyway. There’s more to it than just being a simple cop-out. Relationships with death are deeply personal, and like any link it can grow thin, be strengthened or severed by a mere instant.
I’m feeling kind, and very angry, too, so I’ll drop a hot piece of opinion to see how you like it.
It’s true that death is the ultimate equalizer. You won’t be able to escape it. But this is half the story. Reduce yourself to a by-product of the first movement, and you’ll see that the hot girl that haunts your dreams is not only as minute as you are, but also part of the same stuff. There is no absolute bigger for humans than like, and so it is like that ultimately defines you and what you become. Whether imprinted, learned or born, if she’s with someone else then it’s going to sap the fuck out of your mental energy. You won’t even be able to properly conclude paragraphs in peace.
Now, this is all very cute and all, but ultimately the biggest hurdle I’m facing is the speech impediment I develop around her. I just can’t speak. A mixture of embarrassment, coupled with her past rejection of yours truly and the fact that she gets gaped by an anonymous hunk makes me feel a bulge not only on my pants, but my heart and throat, too. Breathing becomes a foreign concept. You are manually breathing, by the way. Remember to bring in air through the stomach. I’ve only ever wanted to fuck all the girls I meet, so maybe the approach left my ability to talk underdeveloped.
I’ll admit she’s the best thing that has happened to me, for without the pain it brings I’d still just be the same idiotic kid, albeit with even less interesting things to say.
So, I am a depressive fuck. But that’s not something I want you to turn into. It’s a state of mind which is useful for processing data in a realistic manner, but it’s not something that’s worth living in for too long. As such, it is one of our sworn goals to take pain, misery, and thoughts of her moaning as he holds her legs up high, while their fluids mix together in a hot, hazy summer afternoon, and transform our curse of rationality by beating it into submission. To first dissolve it, then filtrate, evaporate, distill, separate, rectify, calcinate, commix, purify, inhibit, ferment, fixate, multiply, and finally project it.
After that comes the shower. At just the right temperature, the water drips down, rinsing the soap and sweat away from her body into the guts of the city. The last few drops of semen leak imperceptibly out from her. The scalp, back and breasts bear the brunt of the fallen rain. Maybe, in a flash of memories, she’s briefly betrayed by her brain. I can only hope a microsecond a day is spared in my honor, even if it’s immediately shaken away.
Or maybe they’re now fucking again together in the sower, and they’re taking the chance to do anal. Fuck me. I need out.
Oh, so you were calling me. The new toy was really mine after all, I just had to grab it.
Okay, so what now? Should I dump myself into you? All of this shit?
Dear god, I’m in love with someone else.
“Hi. I’m in love with someone else.”
Smooth lines as always, champ.
I’ll try to be nice. I promise not to ask her over to my side.
There’s a chance I’ll hurt you. I’m all for romance, but muddy shit I have trouble filtering.
The biggest issue is me. Sometimes I wonder what “she”‘ll think. It’s sickening, and I can’t help hating the idea of me putting it in jealousy terms. The usual MO is to keep quiet, so there’s no worries in the practical sense. But it’s rough. I then feel like I’m using this new girl to push the other one out. Hey, maybe it works.
For now, I’m happy anyway. This self loathing is much easier to handle, since at the end of the day, someone new may caress my twitchy heart. And so we end on a good note.
december 17th, 2019