This Used To Be Me

30.08.2003 - 02:11
Exeunt, the Moor.

The fantasies I construct tend to assume various degrees of reality. all of them do on some plane, i suppose, even if it's a plane in my head where two separate fantasies converge into one grander invention. Consistency is, in its own odd way, a form of reality; when you get two stories operating around a similar principle-or within the context of one-then something becomes real, albeit conditionally. Seventh-grade pre-algebra taught me that a conditional reality is, at least, real enough to affect your other realities. I only wish I'd had the clarity of vision to bounce this idea off my father as he shook me by the collar of my shirt in punishment for my D in the class; I doubt, in his anger, he'd have possessed the appropriate mindset to find such logic impressive (or at least amusing) enough to preclude me from punishment.

In hindsight, the truth is in those fucking equations, though; just as y = mx + b determines the reality of points on a grid, so absence-times-desire, plus the sight of that which would heal both = fantasy. The absence of reciprocal affection in my life, times my need for constant reinforcement, plus the sexy dyed-blonde siggint across from me on the train equals a shard of thought, spiking its way through my id, ego, superego and all those other invented realities into my consciousness: pelvic bones and pubic hair pressing above my cock, paint smeared on lips pressing anywhere to me.

I don't mean to make a sex thing out of this, but that's what the passing of every lonely second drags with it. Truthfully, this comes to mind because I've spent an inordinate amount of time relying upon my invented realities to carry the burden of making me happy in real life. On all levels; the persistent hypothetical suggesting the alternate dynamics my life would take on if I won the lottery or hit big at a casino, the punchline-laden story of a marriage to any one of my female friends, the things I would do if I ever found a band again...the cliches go on and on. when I was younge,r I could get away with dwelling amongst such relativity, so that's exactly what I did.

I'm sorry to anyone reading this; I don't have much of a direction, no grand revelation of the nature of humanity, which I can't imagine any of you expected, but for some reason I feel compelled to apologize for.

I think the burden of this speech is that this, and I mean both the electronic hollowness you're reading and the slightly-more-organic form in which I'm composing it constitutes little more than fantasy, to me. It's a cross-section of the common reality we all share, sure, but fantasy just the same, because it's not real; it's only what I see.

And it's easily-manipulated, for sure. Trugh be told, I've used this fantastic reality to help facilitate all of my greatest flaws, but none more so than my penchant for self-delusion. Part of the reason why is that, sad to say, I've wanted to bring so much of my "real" life into this life, perhaps in the interest of full disclosure at first. But, as people and relationships grew and changed, the feasibility of such disclosure became...compromised, and subsequently diminished. and now, I find myself living a lie even in this world, one I should have control over.

In short: I'm sick of omitting things from my realities--all of them--because ignoring the truth becomes harder to explain than the truth itself. I'm tired of that.

The bliss is gone, so to speak, ripped from the haze so sharply that the haze isn't even that anymore, simply a magnifier of all the brightness of the world, coating everything I see in this inescapable, featureless, ultimately blinding light.

And, as we all know, I prefer things a bit darker.

Good bye. I'll be back, but not here. Not anymore.

Thanks.

then - soon

25.09.2003-Epilogue.

01.09.2003-

30.08.2003-Exeunt, the Moor.

28.08.2003-why?

27.08.2003-Last night, and august in general.